Sherlock oneshots
by MysticPuma
Summary: A collection of short fanfictions based on prompts from songs, poems and things my friends have said. Yes it's a bad summary, mine always are XD Rated T just in case.
1. Souvenirs

**AN: Hi guys x Anyone who's just started reading, welcome! This is (obviously) a collection of my various BBC Sherlock one-shots. Most of them are Johnlock, and quite a few are angsty (you've been warned xxx)**

**For those who have previously read these, I've finally decided to sort out the (Frankly) messed up formats :P I may read them over at some later date.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock *cries a little*, it is owned by the BBC and the amazing Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss xxx**

**Enjoy xxx**

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><p><strong>Souvenirs<strong>

"There's nothing left for me, of days that used to be… They're just a memory among my souvenirs… Some letters tied with blue, a photograph or two. I see a rose from you, among my souvenirs. A few more tokens rest, within my treasure chest. And though they do their best to give my consolation… I count them all apart, and as the teardrops start… I find a broken heart… Among my souvenirs."

_It's been two weeks since Sherlock died. John brings out his chest of treasures, and delves through them. He realises, as he sifts, that the feelings he had were more than friendship._

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><p>John sat alone in his room. Again. He dare not leave it. It's one of the only places that doesn't have a ghost hanging over it. His ghost. Sherlock.<p>

The flat is full to the brim of memories. The sofa, when John first came in to see Sherlock with three nicotine patches on, having texted him, called him from the other side of London, just to borrow his phone and text a killer.

The smiley face on the wall full of holes, from whenever Sherlock got too bored.

The make-shift lab he'd set up to analyse data and samples when he couldn't be bothered to go to Bart's.

The scratch on the table that Sherlock had never fully explained the reason for.

The chair. His chair. In the first few days, when John still sat in the room, people would come to try and comfort him. Harry, Greg, even Mycroft. John made them sit in his chair, and he would stand, his arm rested on the back of Sherlock's chair protectively. Mycroft had noticed…

"_John, he's not coming back…" he said._

"_Don't-! I don't care…"_

"_John, just because it was the chair he used to sit in, that doesn't mean…" he tried to get up and move to it. John kicked him in the shin._

"_STAY AWAY!"_

_He spent that night in a cell._

That chair was precious. The amount of times Sherlock had curled up into an inhumanly small ball to think…

John sighed. Even when he wasn't in the room, he still thought of it all. The memories, the little ghostly glimpse he'd see of his best friend.

He stood and walked slowly, precisely, carefully to the wardrobe. He pulled the door open and looked down on the small box. He bent to pick up the box, and set it on his small desk. He sat, and unclasped the lock of the box. The lid swung open, and John stared into the box of tokens. Trivial items. John imagined what Sherlock would say : _"Sentimental value… I don't understand it, really. Why do you keep these things, John? They're just useless trinkets…"_

But they were more than that to John.

The first things he pulled out was the small collection of envelopes, tied together with a blue ribbon. Nine in all, each with Sherlock's name written on them. John pulled gently at the ribbon, and it fell away with a small flutter. He spread out the nine nearly identical letters. Only nearly identical because they each had tear-stains in different places. The tears always fell, but never in the same place.

Then John pulled out a stack of photos, tied with the same blue ribbon. He spread them on the table as well. There were only twelve. It had been rare that he could either force Sherlock to pose for a photo, or that he could trick him. He would usually be found out if he was trying the latter. Sherlock wasn't stupid.

It was easy to tell which were the forced, and which were caught-out. There were only three that were of Sherlock in a natural position. The rest were poses that reminded John of his little habits. Like when he would flick up his collar just to look cool.

John picked up a photo. The best one. Mrs Hudson and John had dragged Sherlock to the country for a small break from cases. Mrs Hudson had then badgered and badgered them for a picture of Sherlock kissing John's cheek. She still didn't get that they weren't gay. John protested, as did Sherlock, but neither of them could truly deny Mrs Hudson that one thing after all she'd done for them. So they gave in, and Sherlock had planted a small kiss on John's cheek, while Mrs Hudson held up the camera to snap the photo. John had gone bright red. John hadn't noticed before, but Sherlock seemed to be fighting a smile in the picture, an odd occurrence. John shook himself from his reverie, and placed the picture back on the table.

John's heart stopped at the sight of the next item. He stared at it, and, with a small tear rolling down his cheek, remembered the events that lead to it being there.

_John sighed._

"_What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, the slightest hint of concern in his smooth baritone voice._

"_Nothing." John said, forcing a smile._

"_Don't lie." Sherlock muttered emotionlessly._

"_Oh, you wouldn't understand."_

"_So? Isn't it you that says it's just nice to get it out?" Sherlock asked, although it was obvious he didn't understand the concept._

"_Well… It's Valentine's Day tomorrow…" John muttered. "And I'm single. Again."_

"_What happened to Sarah?" Sherlock asked. Of course. John hadn't actually told Sherlock that Sarah had dumped him two days ago…_

"_She dumped me."_

"_Oh." Sherlock's face showed none of the sympathy that he felt for his friend. "Sorry to hear that."_

"_No you're not."_

_The next day, John got out of bed, and trudged down the stairs, ready at any moment for Sherlock to jump him with a new case. But nothing happened. The flat was quiet, silent even, except for the sound of John pouring his tea. He wasn't hungry._

_He spent the morning watching TV, when it suddenly occurred to him that Sherlock hadn't even appeared once all day. John's brow furrowed in confusion._

_Suddenly, the door slammed._

"_Sherlock?"_

"_That was ridiculous… Why do people do this? It's so much hassle." Sherlock's voice rang out. He was talking to himself, but John didn't care._

"_What are you on about?" he asked, not looking away from the TV. A tap on his shoulder made him turn around and stop._

"_Happy Valentine's Day, John." Sherlock said, thrusting a single rose at him. John couldn't help but smile._

A small smile crept onto his face as he recalled it. He'd taken the rose to be crystallised, so it wouldn't die, and had then tied a small blue ribbon in a bow around it. He told Sherlock it was to mock him about his little show of affection, but it meant something a little different in John's heart. The small blue bow upon the frozen rose was the most precious of John's trinkets.

More tears spilled from his eyes as he gazed over the small collection. He touched them each in turn, the memories flooding back into his mind with a rush of pain, a raging torrent he tried to keep bottled. But none of the tokens within John's treasure chest of memories could possibly give John any small amount of consolation.

He brought the rest of the small items from the box. There were two compositions by Sherlock than John had stolen one night from the crammed music stand.

A small postcard Sherlock had sent him when he'd been away on a case, while John had the flu stared up at him from the bottom of the box. The only words written on it, except the address, were : _I'm lost without my blogger._ A simple enough sentence.

As John picked out the postcard, he found himself wishing. Wishing that it could have a hidden meaning. Knowing it didn't, couldn't, wouldn't… But that was too sentimental for Sherlock. Too emotional. Too nice.

And John realised, with a heavy heart, that all that was left in the emptied box now, all that would ever go back in, was a broken heart. He'd been blind to how much Sherlock had meant to him, and now, staring at that message, he realised.

He had loved Sherlock. He had loved him with all his heart.

And now he simply found a broken heart, among his souvenirs from the best time of his life.

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><p><strong>AN: There we go :) First fic fixed x<strong>


	2. Just Kiss Me

**AN: Second one x **

**Interesting fact: I wrote this, and the previous one while doing a show about the second world war XD how cheerful :/ x**

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><p>Just kiss me<p>

_Ever since Sherlock died, John's been having dreams of confessing his long harboured feelings for the detective. So what happens when it's not a dream?_

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><p><em>"Sherlock?"<em>

_"Hi, John."_

_"I knew you weren't dead…"_

_"Of course you knew."_

_"I missed you."_

John sat bolt upright. Another dream. He stared forward into the blackness, wishing it would swallow him for good… He felt odd, though, and clambered out of bed. This was what happened in the dreams…He'd climb out of bed, hear footsteps, go to the door of his room, and there he'd stand. Sherlock would be there.

Then John would smile and hug him. Sherlock would bury his face in John's hair…

John heard footsteps. Here it came. He stood at the door. Each time something else happened too… And John smiled at the thought of it happening again.

The footsteps stopped, just outside the door to John's room. John reached to the handle, as he usually did, but the door opened of its own accord this time. There he stood.

"Sherlock…" John breathed. It was no longer a question. He appeared every time. Every night. Every dream. For six months.

"Hello, John." He said. His face was more pained than usual, as though he knew how much pain John had been through.

"I knew you weren't dead…" John said.

"No, you didn't." Sherlock replied sadly. John frowned. He didn't normally say that. "You wouldn't have been in so much pain if you did."

"I missed you." John said, trying to get the dream back on track.

"I missed you too, John." Sherlock replied, a small smile spreading across his pale face. His cheekbones were more prominent than normal. His hair more curly, more defined, more beautiful.

He wasn't wearing what he usually wore; his signature coat and scarf were there, but he wasn't wearing a suit like normal. He had scruffy jeans and a ripped t-shirt on. Second hand trainers too. John frowned again. This dream was different. He didn't really care.

"What's wrong, John?" Sherlock asked. Stupid question. John was in shock. Or at least, that's what he presumed.

"Nothing. I just…" he trailed off, before crushing Sherlock in a hug. Sherlock smiled and buried his head in John's hair, drinking in his scent. He'd missed that scent so much… He rubbed John's back gently.

"Just what?" Sherlock asked after a while. "You didn't finish."

John ignored the difference.

"Just…"

Sherlock pushed him away a little, to look into his eyes. He was trying to deduce what was wrong.

"Just kiss me…" John said, blushing before crashing his lips to Sherlock's. It felt different to the usual kiss, in the dream.

For one thing, Sherlock seemed a bit shocked. That wasn't normal. John pulled back to look at the confused look on Sherlock's face.

"It's been a long, long time…" Sherlock muttered. John frowned again. Then Sherlock kissed John. This was a pleasant turn; certainly not normal. John expected he'd wake up soon. He always did. But he kissed back, savouring it. It felt so real. More real than normal.

The sleepy haze began to lift.

"John…?" Sherlock asked. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"You don't normally kiss me…" John said, frowning again.

"Normally…? Well, you've never kissed me before, so why would I? I thought you'd be a bit more shocked though." Sherlock replied, matter-of-factly.

"Why? It's the same dream I have every night…" John explained. He had explained to about three other incarnations of Sherlocks that it was a dream.

Dream…? Sherlock frowned, then it smoothed as he realised.

"John, you're not dreaming." He sighed.

"You've said that before. I'll wake up soon." John said, a sad smile on his face. Sherlock sighed.

"I forgot how stupid normal people can be." He muttered. John frowned, angry and upset this time.

"You're usually nicer." He said.

"I'm usually not real. I'm usually a figment of your imagination. It always happens. There's always the odd difference, your tiny little brain can't store everything about everyone. You were bound to lose something in the haze." Sherlock explained at lightning speed.

The sleepy haze was gone. John's eyes widened and he pinched himself quickly.

"Y-you're real…?" John asked.

"Of course I am!" Sherlock said. "Couldn't you notice the signs?"

John blinked.

And he blushed madly. He'd just kissed Sherlock. For real. Damn! He backed away. Sherlock caught his wrist.

"What's wrong?"

"I-I'm sorry!" John cried.

"For what?" Sherlock asked, that adorable look of confusion crossing his features.

"For k-kissing you!"

Sherlock sighed.

"John… It's all fine." He quoted his friend. He then gave a small smile. John stared at him.

"Sherlock… I-I-I…" John stuttered, and it crashed down on him. Sherlock was alive. He was here… He was… "You… YOU BASTARD!" John yelled, punching Sherlock in the face. Sherlock let go of his wrist as he flew to the floor. But he just kept smiling.

"Now _that's_ the reaction I was expecting." He said, grinning. John burst into tears and clung onto Sherlock tightly. Sherlock stroked his head gently. "It's alright."

"I…" The things he never said. _Say them now…_

"What?" Sherlock asked, expectantly.

"I love you." John said, blushing brighter than a tomato. Sherlock smiled.

"And I you, John." He said. "I'm sorry for everything."

"Don't leave… Promise." John said. "Don't disappear again…"

"I won't."

"Stay here, tonight…" John said. Sherlock nodded, and helped John into bed, before slipping in next to him. John clung to him, sobbing un-controllably.

John's eyes flew open. The space next to him was empty. His heart sank. It _had_ been a dream.

"Wrong." Came a voice from the doorway. John sat up and sure enough, there was Sherlock, standing in the bright beam of sun from the crack in the curtains. His hair was wet, and he was wearing his silk dressing gown. "Sorry. Had to get a shower. I didn't think you'd wake up so soon." He said, sincerely, a small smile gracing his features.

John's eyes welled up with tears. He sprung from the bed and flung his arms around Sherlock.

"I promised." Sherlock said. "I don't break promises."

John reached up and kissed him.

"It's been a long, long time…" he said.

"Just kiss me again." Sherlock replied.

And he did.

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><p><strong>AN: Hurrah for cheesy endings!<strong>


	3. Dead is the New Alive

Dead is the new Alive

_"Dead is the new alive…"_ – Dead is the new alive, Emilie Autumn.

_POST Reichenbach; One week after Sherlock's funeral, John receives a letter…_

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><p>One week after Sherlock's funeral. John lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. It was the one room Sherlock had never been in (far too boring), and therefore the only room John could stand to be in at the moment…<p>

The late evening had settled over Baker's street, and John knew Mrs Hudson would be in bed soon. The peace that would inevitably follow was both welcome and unnerving for John.

"Ooh, ooh." called Mrs Hudson from outside John's room, with a small knock.

John rolled off his bed, as Mrs Hudson pushed the door open.

"There was an envelope with your name on it in the post. I nearly forgot about it…" She said, walking over to the bed and holding the envelope out for him to take.

"Thanks…" John said quietly, taking the envelope. It looked expensive… He offered Mrs Hudson a small smile. She smiled widely at him, before leaving again.

John pushed himself back onto his bed, and leant against the wall, studying the envelope. He was sure he recognised the handwriting. The black pen it was written in was a fountain pen. Certainly not a cheap one. John frowned. Was it from Mycroft? He opened the envelope warily and pulled out the single sheet of posh stationary.

The next morning, Mrs Hudson climbed up the stairs with a tray in her hands.

"Ooh, ooh!" she called, before walking backwards through John's door. She turned, and the tray fell to the floor. The cup smashed on the floor, and tea stained the carpet. A plate smashed too, sending the toast that it had held flying across the room.

There was a note on the bed, covered in blood.

_Goodbye, Mrs Hudson._ It read. _I'm so sorry, but I can't take it. John_

Mrs Hudson felt tears well in her eyes. She could only think of one person to call…

"H-hello?" her voice shook on the phone.

"Mrs Hudson." Mycroft's calm voice came from the other end. Even Mrs Hudson could notice the sadness that the calm hid. He was devastated about Sherlock as well… But he was sadder than normal. "Turn on the television, Mrs Hudson." He commanded. She obeyed, pressing the 'on' button. "BBC news." She flicked to it.

_"This morning the body of John Hamish Watson, known blogger of fake detective Sherlock Holmes' farfetched adventures, was identified by scientists today. His body was found early this morning, after he supposedly flung himself from the top of Bartholemew's Hospital, just like Holmes. Although his body was severely mangled and scarred, apparently from severe self-harm, DNA tests revealed his identity."_ Said the news reporter.

Mrs Hudson could barely speak. She hung up on Mycroft, and turned off the TV. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She returned to John's room, and saw the envelope from the previous night left on his bed. What had it said…?

"Ready?"

"Yes… I think so."

"Ok. He'll be here soon."

"Did you know all along?"

"Yes. Sorry I couldn't tell you."

"It's alright, Molly."

He looked at the note.

_Dear John,_

_Dead is the new alive._

_Surely you should have realised this already?_

_How could you not?_

_Of course. You're just like the rest sometimes. An idiot._

_I mean that in the nicest possible way._

_Join me, John._

_Come to Bart's._

_Sherlock._

He smiled, and turned off the TV.

"Molly."

"There you are! He's ready."

"Great."

"You can come out now!"

The door swung open. The two men stared at each other and both broke into ear splitting grins.

"Sherlock…"

"John…"

The soldier ran from the room and threw his arms around the detective, whose arms were in midair.

"Dead is the new alive, huh?" John cried, with a small laugh. "That's just cheesy."

"I know."

"I nearly didn't believe it was you, you know… I thought Moriarty was setting me up."

"But you came anyway."

"I guess I was desperate."

"Moriarty's dead, John."

"Dead? Are you sure he's not faking it too?"

"You can't fake a bullet through the head, John." Sherlock smirked. "Why are you hugging me?"

John started and backed away.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed.

"I was only asking. Don't stop." Sherlock said, pulling him into another hug. John smiled.

"I missed you."

"And I missed you. I hear that there were some things you wanted to say to me…" Sherlock coaxed. John blushed deeply, but shook his head. "Well, I wanted to tell you something…" John pushed away, so he could give Sherlock a puzzled look. Sherlock's face suddenly looked awkward and confused.

"What is it?"

"Well…" Sherlock started. "It seems that… Against my better judgement… And choice… That I have developed certain… Feelings?" he tiptoed. John frowned in confusion. "Feelings that until a couple of weeks ago, I didn't realise."

"What's that, then?"

"I…" Sherlock stuttered. "I care for you, John. Far more than I thought I ever could."

"Sherlock… You mean…?"

"Yes. I divorced my work." Sherlock laughed at his own joke. John giggled childishly, and he blushed.

"I love you, Sherlock." John said. Sherlock grinned.

"Don't expect me to say it." He muttered. John laughed.

"I never would."

"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock said, turning to her. "For everything."

"No problem." Molly said, smiling. "You two have a nice li-…death." She giggled.

"Dead is the new alive, Molly!" Sherlock cried triumphantly. John smiled. "Come, John! We have a death to live!" he announced, and with that they were gone.

No-one heard from them ever again, although a certain Inspector did begin to receive frequent anonymous hints and tip-offs concerning his cases.

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><p>Yeah... I'm not too proud of the ending...<p>

It didn't turn out quite as well as I hoped.

If anyone has any prompts/ideas for these one-shots please feel free to message me with them x

**Review Please, because you love me? x**


	4. Crush

Crush

_John questions Sherlock on his past relationships._

**AN: Thank you jbdrwholuvr for the review xxx**

**This one's an established relationship fic. Slight OOC-ness :/ I'm afraid it couldn't be helped here… This one doesn't actually have a prompt XD I just decided to write it... :) Enjoy x**

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><p>John stared at his boyfriend worriedly. Any minute now-<p>

"John, I'm bored…" Sherlock muttered. There it was…

"Then do something…" John immediately regretted this line, and said straight after: "But don't do stupid experiments, or shoot holes in the wall…"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"And NO Cluedo." John added defiantly. Sherlock pouted.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock looked at John.

"Why are you over there, John?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm bored, John…"

John sighed, and placed his laptop on the floor, before walking over to Sherlock, who immediately sat up on the sofa, allowing John room to sit. Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around John, and leant against him. John let his arms enfold Sherlock, and found himself smiling. Suddenly, his curiousity peeked…

"Sherlock…?" he asked.

"Hm?" came the content reply of the detective.

"When you were at school… Did you ever have a crush on someone…?" John enquired, looking down at his boyfriend. Sherlock looked up at him.

"No. I never saw the point." He answered. "You?" he asked, his tone particularly un-interested.

John chuckled. Sherlock frowned. "Only one." John muttered. Sherlock closed his eyes, and John sighed. Sherlock was already asleep. John was partly glad, but annoyed that Sherlock had jumped to the conclusion that it had been some boring girl that was one other person he could hate… John let his mind slip back to his earlier days, in high school…

"Who's that?" A chorus of young girls giggled.

"What a weirdo…" Some boys muttered.

John went over to his friends, and his eyes locked with someone else's across the room. Someone he'd never seen before…

"Hey guys…?" he began, not taking his eyes off the stranger. "Who is he?"

"That guy? Some posh guy, rich family. I heard his brother's tryin' to get him to make some friends by sending him to public school. He's been home-schooled…" Mike explained. John nodded.

He couldn't take his eyes off the strange boy. His dark curled hair, and his striking, silvery-blue eyes. His angular cheek-bones and pale complexion. Each piece of him was perfectly sculpted and fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle, and John felt a tug in his heart at the beauty of the mysterious creature. The boy's eyes narrowed in confusion at John, and he looked away, blushing. Thankfully, none of his friends noticed.

"What's his name?" John asked quietly.

"Sherlock Holmes." Said his friends in unison, chuckling. "Posh git." Mike added with a snort.

John risked another glance up. Sherlock was observing the dining hall with a distinct look of disgust. John then saw Anderson, the school bully, walk past and pretend to trip, throwing his lunch towards the new boy. John's eyes went wide as the food flew through the air, but missed Sherlock by miles as he dodged quickly, smirking at the older boy. John glowed with happiness as Anderson stalked away, his face contorted in a scowl of defeat.

Sherlock sat on his own, and John contemplated going over and talking to him, getting to know him… But John was way out of the rich young boy's league, and besides… He probably wasn't even gay.

John sighed. His first crush, and it _had_ to be on a guy. He'd never mention this to anyone.

Before the week was over, Sherlock Holmes had left again, refusing to stay in the comprehensive, and choosing home schooling. He hadn't looked at John once more during the three days he'd been there, but John took comfort in the fact that to be quite honest, he hadn't looked at anyone.

John thought he'd never see the beautiful boy again…

John chuckled to himself, twirling Sherlock's hair in his hands. Sherlock's eyes shot open.

"What are you chuckling about, John?"

"Nothing…"

And he looked down into those eyes, and saw the confused young boy again. John smiled and kissed his boyfriend happily.

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><p>I was rather proud of this idea, but I feel Sherlock was a little OOC... (opinions?)<p>

Anyway... I'm running out of prompts and ideas fast. Anyone has any ideas? HIT ME WITH EM!

**Lots of Love all x**

**Please review, they make me so happy :) x**


	5. Crush II

Crush II

_Sherlock tries to recall his small experiences with school and realises something…_

**AN: This follow-up is due to the request of jbdrwholuvr :). I hope I can make you proud and give you a story you like x**

**It's probably best if you've read "Crush" first, but if not, this should be an alright stand-alone XD**

**Oh yeah, it's long.**

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><p>Sherlock never dreamt. Ever. He barely ever slept, so that might have explained it.<p>

Currently, Sherlock was lying against the warm body of his boyfriend, John Hamish Watson, on the sofa of their flat in 221B Baker Street. John had fallen asleep a few moments ago, their conversation of earlier hanging in the air. Sherlock sighed. John hadn't had many crushes, but did that mean he still loved the girl he'd crushed on.

She was probably dull. With a boring name, like Sarah, or Molly, or Mary… She probably had blonde hair, and piercing green, or many blue eyes… She was probably hot as hell.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt jealous. He was jealous of whoever this girl was, and was desperate to find something to show it was just him being paranoid…

He sat up, laying John gently onto the arm of the sofa. He placed his hands into his thinking position; pressed together, as if in prayer, under his chin. He closed his eyes and entered his Mind Palace.

_He zoomed through the corridors, skipping whole years at a time. He came across many memories of John within his thoughts. The first time they'd met; the restaurant; the tramway, and plenty of other memories surfacing. Sherlock pushed past them, back into his younger years. _

_First… Primary education. He had been forced to attend ten different schools before his mother relented and allowed him to be home-schooled._

_Each school had lasted no more than ten days. Then, Sherlock had sulked in his room, and occasionally tried to blow up the house…_

_He fought a smile at these memories, and pushed into the school days. These memories had been buried. He'd been meaning to delete them, but had never had the energy or time. They were tiny memories anyway, taking up next to no space in his hard drive. In total, his time spent in Primary School amounted to less than a single half term. He skimmed over the first school's memories. No girls, no boys had caught his eye._

_The second school, someone had talked to him once… But he'd ignored her, and hadn't found her in the least bit interesting or attractive…_

_The third school. Not even worth it. He'd been immediately ridiculed there, and hadn't even lasted one day._

_The following three schools were similar, with no one talking to him other than to mock him, or annoy him._

_The seventh and eighth schools had lasted the longest. Ten days each, in which Sherlock had spoken to about 5 people across the two schools. In the first, two boys had tried to befriend him, and nearly succeeded, until Sherlock realised they were only after his money, and he left the school. In the second, two girls had become smitten with him, and one boy had clung to him as a fellow freak. Sherlock found it interesting to study their behaviour, until he grew bored and left._

_As for the ninth school, Sherlock preferred not to think about it… He tried to this one time, and found nothing… He deleted it. All that lingered in that room was a feeling of fear, and Sherlock knew that even if he delved in and recovered the memories, they would not hold what he was searching for…_

_The tenth school was dull. Nothing had happened. The teachers had been of a terribly low calibre, and Sherlock had known more than most of them put together. The children were zombies, and Mycroft had in fact been the one to say "Mummy, he _can't_ go to _that_ place!" For once, Sherlock had been grateful for his brother's existence, as he had convinced Mummy to allow Sherlock to be home-schooled, as he had been._

Sherlock sighed. Nothing in the primary school years… months… weeks. There were around four weeks in total… He took a deep breath, and went into the high school attempts.

_There were less of these rooms. Mycroft had taken this over, as more of an attempt to give Sherlock a "normal" childhood, and get him some friends. Sherlock refused to comply. He found each school more annoying, dull and stupid. The teachers knew nothing._

_Only three high schools. That was it. Mycroft had given up after the final one. Sherlock combed through these more carefully. If he'd _ever_ had a crush, it would be here… Right?_

_The first school… Large, annoyingly so. Far too many people. Sherlock spent a week there, before he was severely bored of it, and insisted he be pulled out, before his brain began to rot; which he knew it would._

_The second school. More bullying. But by that time, Sherlock was relatively good at avoiding it. Being polite to them to avoid confrontation, or dodging their blows when they attacked anyway. Only twice did he get his head shoved down a toilet, an achievement he was relatively proud of._

_The final school…_

Sherlock stopped. He doubted there would be anything in the last one. The probability was ridiculously slim. He we about to step out of his Mind Palace completely, when he saw John's sleeping form. He _had_ to find something… Something to assure him that a childhood crush couldn't continue now… He reluctantly returned.

Desperate now, Sherlock decided he would try to relive the memory… Anything was better than nothing. He was sure nothing had happened, but he had to be sure.

_"Come on, Sherlock. It won't be that bad." Mycroft, now desperate to get his brother some friends, said, leading the brooding fourteen year old into the school. Sherlock's arms were folded over his chest in defiance._

_"It'll be just like the last one, Mycroft." Sherlock muttered._

_"Of course it won't!" Mycroft cried exasperatedly. His patience with his younger brother was wearing thin. Sherlock thought he was so perfect… _Then again…_ Mycroft thought. _He is related to me, which must give him quite the ego boost…_ Yes, Mycroft thought he was perfect._

_Mycroft forced his brother to unfold his arms, and he pushed him into the dining hall. Sherlock surveyed the room with disinterest. So many stupid people…_

Sherlock's eyes shot open in alarm.

"John?" he muttered to himself. But John stirred, and sat up straight, suddenly alert.

"What's wrong!" he cried, going into soldier mode.

"N-nothing. Sorry I woke you." Sherlock said, his face not moving from its expression of shock.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock looked at John, his face deadly serious. His eyes softened as he studied John's face.

"Sherlock… What's wrong?" John asked. Sherlock sighed inwardly. John always knew when something was wrong.

"I'm fine, John. Just thinking."

"Have you been in your Mind Palace?"

"Yes."

"What were you trying to remember?"

"My last high school…" Sherlock muttered. John stopped.

"W-what?" he stuttered.

_Sherlock's eyes stopped for a moment at the sight of the young boy. He was staring at him, as though Sherlock were the only human being alive. Sherlock was suddenly lost in his eyes… But he snapped himself out of it. _What are you doing?_ He scolded himself._ No feelings.

_But he couldn't stop the flutter in his heart when the young boy looked away, a light blush gracing his cheeks. Sherlock mentally slapped himself, and turned away._

_Suddenly, he saw another boy walking towards him, a rather sloppy lunch in his hands. Sherlock saw him pretending to trip, and stepped aside as the food went soaring through the air._

_Out of the corner of his eye, the boy was looking again, his eyes transfixed on Sherlock, and his face unable to rid itself of a beautiful smile._

"John… Would you smile?" Sherlock asked, his voice completely serious, but uncharacteristically gentle. John frowned in confusion.

"Why?"

"Just… Think of something happy." Sherlock suggested. John thought for a moment, and then… There it was. The same smile. Sherlock's eyes lit up, and a grin spread across his face.

"What is this about, Sherlock?" John asked.

"What were you thinking of?" Sherlock ignored John's question.

"The time that the school bully tried to bully someone, but failed." John said quietly, knowing Sherlock wouldn't realise who he meant.

But Sherlock's grin widened.

"Really?" he asked, his voice calculating, inquisitorial, as though he was interrogating John for a case.

"Yeah. He was walking towards someone, and he 'tripped'…" John held his hands up to create the quotation marks in the air. "He was trying to splatter this person with food, and they just stepped out of the way." John explained, with a small smile.

"Who was it?" Sherlock asked, struggling to sound oblivious, considering the grin plastered on his face. He cursed his body for betraying him.

"The bully? Anderson…" John muttered. Sherlock sniggered under his breath. He knew he recognised Anderson when they'd first met. He'd never dwelled on it though, Anderson wasn't worth it.

"I meant the person who dodged him." He said, his smooth baritone voice betraying nothing.

"Oh." John blushed. He couldn't tell him… "I don't know, really."

Sherlock's face fell. _Damn…_

"What's wrong!" John exclaimed.

"Nothing." Sherlock returned to normal. "You going to tell me about this girl you liked at school then?"

"Huh?"

"The one crush you had. What was she like?" Sherlock asked, turning around so he was leaning on the arm of the sofa, with his legs tucked beneath his chin. He looked at John, then at the sofa, indicating for him to sit down. John obliged. He took a deep breath.

"I never said it was a girl." He muttered. Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"It was a guy?"

"Yeah…"

"I thought you said you weren't gay." Sherlock mumbled. "Although I suppose that's null and void now."

"I said you were an exception! I'm straight… Except with you."

"Then who was this guy you liked?" Sherlock was confused now.

"The one who humiliated Anderson…" John muttered, annoyed. Sherlock froze. The corner of his lip twinged, before he broke into the largest grin he ever had before. "What?"

"It was me?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to disguise his happiness now. John stared at him in shock.

"You… You remember?" He asked. Then he realised. "Of course… You remember Anderson tripping. You probably found it amusing." John laughed, a little sadly at his realisation, looking down. Sherlock cupped his face and lifted it up.

"I remember you." Sherlock said quietly. John frowned, trying to pretend he didn't understand. Sherlock smiled. "I remember seeing you… Across the room. You turned away from me, blushing. Then you smiled when Anderson fell over, and your eyes lit up. It was the singular most beautiful sight I ever saw." Sherlock admitted, feeling like a sentimental idiot. John blushed.

"You didn't look at me though." He muttered. "When Anderson fell over, you just went and sat down."

"I looked out of the corner of my eye, John."

"You said you never had a crush at school."

"Well. I didn't. But then I never really stayed at school, did I?" Sherlock countered with a wink and a cheeky smile, just like when they'd officially met.

John was speechless. Sherlock smiled. He liked it when he left John speechless. He pressed their lips together.

As they parted, John smiled.

"I guess we never really got over each other."

Sherlock just chuckled, and leant in to kiss John again.

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><p><strong>I hope this is what you wanted x Sorry if it isn't x<strong>

**I honestly don't know what I think of it... :/ **

**Reviews please! What do you think? x**


	6. Man Gone Mad Part 1

**AN: I'm actually uploading a new one shot! It's quite long, so I'm splitting it into three parts xxx This stimulus also has two other idea which I plan to write up. Thsi one starts off nice and happy, has a bit of angst, and then ends happy (I ouldn't help it with the angst DX I'm a teen XD)**

**ENJOY! :) x**

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><p><strong>Man Gone Mad(1) - Part 1<strong>

"John..."

Silence.

"John."

Silence.

"JOHN!"

"What?" John groaned, turning from his newspaper to stare at his flatmate.

"I'm bored."

John rolled his eyes, and returned to reading his newspaper. "You're always bored." he muttered. Sherlock, the consulting detective John called his friend, hadn't had a case in THREE WEEKS. It was a new record, and Sherlock's mental health was deteriorating because of it. He was thinner than ever, but neither John nor Mrs Hudson could make him eat.

"Please, John."

"We're not playing Cluedo."

"Anything? I need something! My brain is _rotting_!" Sherlock cried, flipping so he was upside down again. John sighed and folded his newspaper up, placing it on the small table next to his chair.

"Like what?" he asked, resting his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands.

"I don't know... Something..." Sherlock muttered. John couldn't suppress the small chuckle at the sight of his flatmate upside down, his curly hair dangling from his head in a dark brown mass.

"Anything I suggest will be boring to you." John said seriously. It usually was the case. But right now, the look in Sherlock's eyes said anything was better than sitting here doing nothing. "Fine... How about we go to the pub? We could invite Lestrade?"

"Okay!" Sherlock cried, jumping out of the chair. Even Sherlock Holmes went stir crazy, and he hadn't even done the shopping. He'd literally been sitting there for three weeks. It was a wonder that his joints hadn't frozen up. Sherlock swept into his room to change into normal clothes (yes, he'd been in his silk dressing gown for three weeks...) and John grabbed his phone.

"Hey, Greg. You free? Oh, I was wondering if you wanted to join Sherlock and I for a drink? Yes, Sherlock's coming. No, it's not a case. We haven't had a case in three weeks... Right. See you there? Great, bye!"

Sherlock came out in his usual smart dress. He was wearing the purple shirt. The one that always seemed to be struggling to hold itself together over Sherlock's chest. John stared for a moment.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Bit smart for the pub, isn't it?" John replied. Sherlock sighed, and pulled the top two buttons open.

"Better?"

John's heart stopped for a moment. Sherlock was listening to him...?

"Y-yeah..." he said, grabbing his coat. "Greg's meeting us there."

"Okay." Sherlock smiled and swung his coat around his shoulders, pulling his scarf on swiftly afterwards. "Shall we?"

John stared at him for a moment. Sherlock was going to the pub. Sherlock. Was. Going. To. The. PUB!

John shook his head to clear it, before following Sherlock as he hurried down the stairs and out of the door. Mrs Hudson called after them, but both of them were far too eager to leave the flat to answer her.

They marched down the road towards the pub. There wasn't much point getting a taxi when the pub was a few streets away. Sherlock walked with a purpose John hadn't seen in weeks. He smiled. It was good to see Sherlock doing something again. But he was worried about how he'd take to alcohol. As far as John knew, Sherlock had never drank any alcohol before. He hadn't even had any champagne at Christmas... John's face twisted at the thought of Sherlock dancing on a table…

"Sherlock. Have you ever had alcohol before?" he blurted out, before he realised how stupid the question probably was. Sherlock must have had alcohol before…

"No." Sherlock said simply. John's eyes widened.

"Really?"

"It held no appeal for me."

"But… but…" John couldn't think what to say.

"What? Are you really surprised?"

"But you've had cocaine." Was all John could utter. Sherlock shrugged.

"It's different."

"But…"

"Alcohol isn't illegal."

"You only had cocaine because it's illegal…?" John was shocked. Sherlock went around solving crimes and helping the police, but he took something just because it was illegal?

"It's not that surprising John. Just because I'm on the side of the angels, that doesn't make me one of them. I hate Scotland Yard, and every other useless police force. I just find the cases interesting. Sometimes." Sherlock explained. John chuckled. "What?"

"Nothing."

"John." Sherlock said darkly, as he turned his head to stare at his companion.

"It's just funny that you act like you're all unique and special, when really you're just a regular rebel like everybody else." John chuckled again.

"I'm not like everybody else!" Sherlock argued.

"Yes you are!" John teased, beginning to guffaw. Sherlock seethed. John ignored him, still laughing as they entered the pub. He saw Greg at the counter already. "Woah, how fast were you?"

"I have a car." Greg chuckled.

"Fair enough. But we barely live three streets away." John muttered. Greg just smiled.

"I haven't been here long."

"Oh, okay."

"So…" Greg started. "Sherlock came?"

"Yeah… I know. Weird." John chuckled as he sat down next to Greg. Sherlock just stood behind them, hands stuffed in his pockets. "Sherlock. Are you going to sit down?" John asked.

"Hm? Oh. Yes…" Sherlock muttered, sitting gingerly next to John.

"Are you alright?" Greg asked.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"I think he's actually feeling awkward." John suggested. Sherlock scowled at him. "Come on, 'Lock. You _are_ a Sociopath."

"I'm not awkward."

"Really…?" Greg muttered sarcastically, before turning to ask the bartender for a beer. "You two going to have anything?"

"I'll have the same as him." John told the bartender, pointing at Greg. "Sherlock?" he turned to face his friend. "Why don't you try a beer?"

"Oh… Go on then. I'll have the same…" Sherlock muttered dryly. John smiled.

"Has he never had beer before?" Greg asked.

"He's never had _alcohol_ before…" John corrected. Greg's eyes widened.

"Really!"

"Really."

"It's not that shocking!" Sherlock snapped.

"It is a little…" Greg muttered. Sherlock sighed.

"You find the most boring things interesting Lestrade."

"Call me Greg, please, Sherlock… I'm not at work."

"So?"

"Do you hear me calling you 'Holmes'?"

"No."

"So call me Greg."

"Fine."

John grimaced. He hoped this wasn't going to be the highlight of the evening.

Soon enough, their drinks arrived. John and Greg laughed at Sherlock's grimace at the smell of the beer. They forced him to actually drink it after about twenty minutes, and he downed it in one, before ordering another. By the time John and Greg had had two beers each, Sherlock had had eight. John stared at his companion, who was grinning like a fool.

"I think you've had enough now, 'Lock…" he muttered.

"John." Greg whispered to him. "Why do I have the feeling this was a bad idea?" John grimaced as Sherlock smiled giddily. It had become clear at four that Sherlock couldn't hold his alcohol well. John figured that was because he'd never had any before. Then, the pandemonium began…#

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><p><strong>Yay, I'm going to leave you hanging xxxx I'll update soon enough :) I hope you liked it, please review xxx<strong>


	7. Man Gone Mad Part 2

**AN: Hey guys, sorry it's taken so long. Can I just say... Nobody seems to realise how important reviews are to me... So I'd like to give a huge thank you to Larahna Steadyblade x Without that one review, I probably would have given up on this story... Seriously, thank you so so so much xxxx**

**the suspense is over temporarily, hope you like it x**

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><p><strong>Man Gone Mad(1) - Part 2<strong>

"Ok! It's karaoke night tonight! Can we get some volunteers?" shouted the announcer, and John could swear he heard him add a "this time…" on the end. Apparently karaoke wasn't very popular, and it probably wouldn't be tonight eith- Oh no. NO! John's stomach flipped as he saw Sherlock get up onto the stage. Despite his obvious lack of skill with holding alcohol, and therefore his extreme drunkenness, Sherlock was still as graceful as ever, and John was staring again, jealous of his agility. He dropped his head into his hands as several women cheered for him. The effect that shirt had on people was shocking… Especially with the two topmost buttons undone.

John grimaced when the random song selector (so _that_ was why nobody volunteered…) gave Sherlock "Love Story" by Taylor Swift. Greg was trying, and failing, to stifle his laughter at the sight. He looked so sober, but he and John both knew he really wasn't. John wondered for a moment if Sherlock would remember any of this in the morning. He hoped for his own sake he wouldn't.

After several different songs, including "I kissed a girl", "Girls just wanna have fun", "Shake it out", "Total Eclipse of the heart", "In the Air Tonight", "Satisfied" and "Cupid's got a shotgun", Sherlock finally came down from the stage. John breathed a sigh of relief. Sherlock may be an amazing singer, but the more he sang, the more he was likely to remember, and the more likely it was he'd kill John. But then, it got worse.

People gathered around the bar, begging Sherlock for another song.

"Please!"

"Come on! Just one more!"

"Leave him alone." Greg commanded desperately, putting on his D.I. voice.

"No! WE WANT MORE!"

Sherlock smiled.

"One more then!" he shouted, to a rousing cheer. John turned to the bartender.

"Aren't you going to do anything?"

"No! This is great for business!" the bartender grinned. John face-palmed as Sherlock clambered onto the stage again, still as graceful as ever.

"Give 'im a slow one!" cried a guy in the crowd.

"Alright, alright!" said the announcer with a smile. He pressed the button, and "A Thousand Years" by Christina Perri came on. As Sherlock sang, even John sank into the dream-like stupor of the other pub-goers. Some people began to cry with the beauty of how the song poured from Sherlock's lips.

As he came up to the chorus, Sherlock's blue-grey eyes swept the room, as if searching for a recipient to the song. When his eyes landed on John's, John felt a leap in his chest and a flush on his face. Greg looked at him.

"I have died everyday waiting for you." Sherlock sang. John felt a tear well up in his eyes at the sheer emotion in the line. Sherlock was being emotional. Sure, he was drunk, but it was still emotion…

"Darling don't be afraid…" The way his voice caressed the words, as though they were delicate flowers…

"…I have loved you for a thousand years." A tear slid down John's cheek. Sherlock's face was so serious. There wasn't even a hint of mockery or fun in it. The emotion was raw on his face as he sang, and John's heart nearly broke at the depth of his eyes. Even from across the room, John could see the sincerity. But Sherlock was drunk. He was off his head. This was the opposite of Sherlock… And that was what made John's heart break so much. Because…

"I'll love you for a thousand more…" He'd never mean it. As the song went on, John felt tears roll from his eyes like waterfalls, and he felt them stain his shirt as he cried. Sherlock's eyes stayed glued to John's. As Sherlock came to the end of the song, John couldn't take it any longer.

"I need some air…" he told Greg, without looking at him, and he finally tore his eyes away from Sherlock's, fresh tears pouring down his cheeks as he stood and fled the pub. Sherlock frowned, but continued singing for the sake of the crowd, as Greg stood and followed John out of the door.

"John? What is it?"

"N-nothing. I'm fine. Just feeling a bit… ill."

"No. It's no illness. What's wrong?" Greg asked, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"It doesn't matter." Then Greg realised.

"Oh… You… Do you like him?" Greg asked gently. He'd had the suspicion for a while, but had had no reason to confirm it. John stopped for a moment, before nodding very slightly. "Come on. Calm down." Greg said, with a comforting smile as he handed John a tissue. "Ever think he might feel the same?"

"Sherlock? Feel the same? Never." John stated.

"Did you SEE the way he looked at you while he was singing?" Greg exclaimed.

"That means nothing. He's drunk."

"Come on. No point spoiling the evening."

"True…" John muttered, wiping his eyes, and then following Greg back into the pub. Sherlock had finished singing and was walking back towards the bar with an uncanny grace. John was sure he couldn't be _that_ drunk… Sherlock glanced towards them, and his direction immediately shifted towards them, his eyes locking with John's again. It was all John could do not to burst into tears and run out of the door again.

"John. What's wrong?" asked Sherlock. John stared. "John?"

"Huh? Nothing." John forced a smile.

"Oh. That's good." Sherlock smiled. John assumed he'd been convinced, which was a little saddening, but he smiled back, sitting back down at the bar. Amazingly, Sherlock didn't have any more beer. Something seemed to be on his mind…

"Are you okay?" John asked after about half an hour of him talking to Greg, while Sherlock sat in silence. Sherlock looked up with the most adorable look of confused innocence on his face that John had ever seen. His heart leapt.

"I'm… fine." Sherlock hesitated. John frowned.

"You sure?" Greg asked, before John could.

"Yeah. Just a second." Sherlock said, before disappearing into the men's toilets.

John and Greg continued their conversation from earlier, but occasionally one of them would mention Sherlock, or ask what was taking him so long. At that point, they would both frown and glance at the door he'd gone through. After twenty minutes, Greg suggested John went to check on him. John nodded and stood, walking towards the door to the toilets. As he entered, he saw Sherlock bent over a sink, with his head in his hands.

"'Lock?" asked John. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock said nothing. He straightened up, brushing off his shirt, which still seemed to be straining; John struggled not to look. He turned to face John, and their eyes locked together again. John felt the tears, but pushed them back down. However, he couldn't stop the slight blush that crept to his cheeks, and the slight increase in his heart rate. If Sherlock hadn't noticed it, he was _really_ drunk. Sherlock stepped forward, so they were inches apart, and he looked down on John. John gulped. He nearly said "What?" but he didn't want to destroy the moment, the silence which had fallen over them both. Before he could do anything else though, Sherlock _did_ break the silence. With one action, one simple act that sent John's head into a whirlwind of confusion and pain.

Sherlock kissed him.

His back bent as he cupped John's face with his right hand, and he gently touched their lips together… John's heart went crazy, and he thought he might faint. But he didn't. Then, Sherlock raised one finger to his lips, miming "shhh", a smile playing on his lips, and he left. John stood there, shell-shocked. He raised his hand to touch his own lips, and felt tears slide down his cheeks. Tears of joy? No. Tears of confusion? Yes…

When John came out, Greg had left. Sherlock explained Greg had said he had an early start for work, and had to go. John nodded.

"Let's go home…" John muttered.

"Oh, okay." Sherlock said. He sounded like a child. He'd become a teenager, maybe even younger, mentally. His mind, under the influence of alcohol, had let all its wall crumble down, and it had regressed to the time before he'd locked his emotions and hormones away behind those walls. Sherlock followed John like a puppy, keeping exactly one metre behind him. Occasionally John would look round, just to check he was still there. He always was.

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><p><strong>AAAAND we're not done :P Cuz I'm mean XD PLEASE REVIEW! I LOVE YOU ALL!<strong>


	8. Man Gone Mad Part 3

**AN: *sigh* no reviews... Giving me NO will power... Only uploading this due to boredom (not a nice reaason to be uploading DX) I know it's not a great story... Don't worry, last part.**

**Here goes**

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><p><strong>Man Gone Mad(1) - Part 3<strong>

The next morning, John got up as normal, and got his tea and toast, with jam of course. Sherlock was nowhere. John sighed and went into Sherlock's room. Sherlock was awake at least. He was sat, cross-legged on his bed, with his head in his hands.

"Hang-over?" John asked, chuckling.

"No. Memory." Was all sherlock said.

"You don't have a head-ache?"

"No."

"But you don't remember anything?" John asked, hopeful the answer was that he didn't.

"No… I don't."

"Then what's wrong?"

"I never forget…"

"It's probably just unimportant information, which you've deleted."

"No. There's something of significance that I've forgotten!" Sherlock yelled. John flinched. "Something stupid. I did something, didn't I? When I was drunk?" Sherlock turned to look John in the eyes. John looked away.

"No. Nothing to report." He muttered. He turned to the door. He let his head turn to Sherlock, who was now frowning. "Tea?" he asked. Sherlock nodded, still frowning, and John left. He leant against the wall a moment. He remembered. But then, he hadn't been off his head… He sighed, and made Sherlock's tea. The mundane task eased his mind, and he'd nearly forgotten about it, until he turned to the living room and saw Sherlock sprawled on the sofa in his silk dressing gown. John blushed, and gulped, before managing to shakily place Sherlock's mug on the table beside him. He immediately downed it.

"Why can't I remember, John?" Sherlock asked.

"You had eight pints…" John muttered dully. Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Eight? That's a lot, isn't it?" he asked. John nodded.

"I had two."

"Do you remember what I did?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"Are you going to tell me then?"

"Nope."

"But John!"

"No."

Sherlock groaned, steepling his hands as he tried to enter his mind palace.

"I'm surprised you don't have a headache…" John muttered, sitting down and taking a gulp of his tea.

"Should I?"

"You had eight pints! I get a headache after four…"

"I'm different."

"True."

"PLEASE TELL ME!"

"No!" John said, stubbornly, standing up and walking into the kitchen to wash his mug.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to remember." John said bluntly. "I'm going shopping, we need more milk.." he said, before grabbing his coat and hurrying down the stairs. Sherlock heard the door slam shut downstairs.

Sherlock steepled his hands again and entered his mind palace. Everywhere was fine, except the room for last night. The room was locked, and the door was fuzzy Sherlock fumbled for the key, and finally found it, turning it in the lock and stepping into the room. Everything was hazy, covered in a thick fog. He waved his hand around in front of him, trying to clear the haze. He saw the eight pints now. He'd cleared enough to see that. He saw John, Lestrade and himself laughing. That was at two pints. Six pints later… Sherlock felt the hormones and emotions he'd repressed for so many years, as they surged up to the surface, breathing the open air for the first time since he'd locked them all away.

And suddenly, everything rushed back to clobber him over the head. His eyes opened suddenly and he gasped. He remembered everything…

Two hours later, John came back.

"You took your time…" Sherlock tried to sound normal. It wasn't easy.

"Sorry, took a detour." John explained, beginning to pack the shopping into the cupboards and fridge.

"Oh." Sherlock knew why. He didn't want to see him. He didn't want to look at him. He was embarrassed, ashamed, horrified…

"Is something wrong, 'Lock?" John asked, peeking around the corner. "No snide comments…?" he asked, confused.

"No. I'm fine." Sherlock said bluntly.

"Don't lie."

"John. I- I remembered…"

"Oh." John froze, before slowly closing the fridge door and putting the milk in his hand on the table. He turned to Sherlock. He found looking into his eyes difficult still…

"John. I'm sorry." Sherlock said. John gulped.

"It's fine." He said, returning to putting things away, this time at double speed.

"John?"

"What?"

"Are you mad?"

"No…"

"You seem upset with me. I never meant to… I just… Don't let this ruin our friendship… Please, John…" Sherlock was struggling to hold back his emotions now, and a tear slipped down his cheek. John turned to him.

"I don't know if I can go back to normal, Sherlo-" he stopped. "Are you crying?"

Sherlock wiped his eyes hurriedly. "No."

"Sherlock… What's wrong?"

"It's nothing."

"Sherlock…" And John forced himself to do it. He locked eyes with Sherlock. It pained him, but he hoped it would make him open up...

"I don't want to lose you because I did something stupid, John." Sherlock said, holding back the tears.

"Sherlock… I can't go back to normal after that!" John exclaimed. "You kissed me!"

"And I'm sorry! I don't know what I was thinking… I just… Let my emotions control me." He said.

"What?"

"I won't repeat myself."

"Your emotions…? Did you actually WANT to?" John asked. Sherlock's eyes widened, and although he'd tried to rebuild his walls, his cheeks flushed and he gulped. "Sherlock. Did you want to kiss me?" John repeated.

"Yes. I have for a while now." Sherlock admitted, finally. John froze, unsure how to react. Did he jump for joy? Weep? Kiss Sherlock then and there? What could he do…? "John?"

"I… I didn't realise."

"Sorry… I shouldn't have said it… I'll just… Go." Sherlock said, standing and walking towards his room. John grabbed his arm. "John?"

"Sherlock." And John reached up and kissed Sherlock.

"I thought you… didn't… weren't…" Sherlock couldn't finish his sentence.

"I wasn't…" Wasn't. That was the key word. Wasn't.

He _wasn't_ gay. He _wasn't_ in love with Sherlock Holmes. But now he _was_. Sherlock couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face. John smiled too.

"Why didn't you say something?" Sherlock asked.

"Why do you think?"

"Hm?"

"I quote… 'I consider myself married to my work'. Sherlock, I thought you would never care." John explained.

"Oh. Well, I can divorce my work… If you'd like." Sherlock offered, with a smile.

"That'd be nice." John said, smiling.

"Done." Sherlock said, leaning down to kiss him again.

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><p><strong>I thought the ending was shit, but up till then I thought it was relatively good, but to be frank I've lost all confidence in this mini-fic... Oh well.<strong>

**I'd ask for reviews, but it never seems to work...**


	9. How do I choose?

**AN: so sorry about my bout of depression everyone... I have a lack of confidence in these stories... it's unreal . anyway... I'm crazy and have decided to upload another one to make up for my awful behaviour... This does however mean there may be a long gap between this upload and the next XD I aplogise for this... in advance. Yay.**

**SO! Yeah... this one's based off a pop song! XP**

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><p><strong>How do I choose?<strong>

_"I can't even find a place to start. How do I choose between my head and heart?" – The Wanted, All time low_

A case gone wrong leads to a rather unfortunate situation. Sherlock finds himself faced with a difficult decision…

Where they'd gone wrong, Sherlock couldn't fathom. He'd taken every precaution, and yet here they were, each strapped to a chair, with about ten guns pointed at them. John was staring at him, desperate for him to have a miraculous idea and get them out.

There were a few options.

One: Signal Mycroft. This was a risky one. This was no ordinary group of thugs. They'd been targeting the detective for a long time… They probably knew he'd do that. So that was off the list.

Two: Beg. _No… Just… No._ he thought

Three: Surrender and allow them to take him, in which case they'd probably let John go, but that would leave Sherlock with no way out, and of course if John went to Mycroft they'd know and would just shoot Sherlock on the spot. This wasn't preferable, Sherlock wanted out of here.

Four: Find the weakness of the group. This one was the most logical. Sherlock could easily deduce the weakness of each one of these men. Make them weak with human emotion. But. There was a huge risk factor involved in this plan. One thing went wrong, and John and Sherlock would both be blown to bits…

One and two were already off the list, so Sherlock had two options. Let them take him, almost certainly resulting in his death in some way shape or form; but they would spare John. Or… Risk both his and John's safety in order to find the weakness of the group and exploit it. Sherlock was good at emotional blackmail.

It seemed an easy decision. Option four was the most logical, and best chance of him surviving. His instincts told him to do it. It had taken him less than a second to think up the list and whittle it down to number four.

He looked up at John, and froze. John was calm now. He knew Sherlock would have a plan. He'd seen him think. Sherlock felt a strange tug in his chest. His empty chest. He had no heart. So why was it beating so fast in protest at the thought of John possibly dying?

And Sherlock realised. He did have a heart… John. John was his heart. Sherlock gulped, and John's eyebrows knitted in worry.

Sherlock closed his eyes again. He was important. His mind was precious. Everything else was transport, but vital. Without it, his brain was useless, and that would never do. He had to live. But… But could he live without a heart? If John died, his heart went with him… Sherlock had never cared for one person so much before. It was alien. Surely he could live without a heart. He'd lived for over thirty years without before, why couldn't he do it again?

Because he'd tasted it now. His mind was in turmoil. One side was fighting for logic, but the part of him that had developed sentiment… Feelings… fought against it. Sherlock's face screwed up in concentration for a millisecond, before straightening out, blank and emotionless. He had decided.

John brightened slightly at the look on his flatmate's face. Sherlock had a plan. He hid his smile from their captors, but stared expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his head.

"Take me." He said. John frowned. The thugs all looked at him, frowning as well. "Take me. I'll do whatever you want. But let John go. He won't tell anyone, will you John?" Sherlock announced, turning his head towards John's frightened face. All John could do was shake his head. Sherlock assumed it was in answer. It wasn't.

"Sherlock… What are you-?" John started, before he was cut off.

"Fine! But if you go to the police, you're dead meat!" cried the leader. "Let 'im go."

They untied John, only one gun focussed on him now. Sherlock sighed in relief as it lowered.

"Sherlock!" John cried.

"Go, John. Forget about me. Live." Sherlock said. "I'll be fine." He said. John mis-understood, and nodded, reassured as he ran from the building. Sherlock closed his eyes. He was glad John had mis-understood him. He though Sherlock had a plan. He was wrong. John would live blissfully unaware of Sherlock's demise, and he would live. Without him.

But Sherlock couldn't live without John. He was lost without his blogger, his John…

His heart.

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><p><strong>I may continue this at some point if people want me to.<strong>

**Review please my lovelies xxxxx**


	10. I can't do this

**AN: I KNOW, ANOTHER UPDATE! SHOCK HORROR XD Also, since I haven't actually decided what I'm doing with the sequel to the last one, that one's probably gonna be a while XD**

**Yeah...**

**So I was doing some art work today, and a FLASH of inspiration hit me in the form of a Rob Ryan picture… (I'm studying him). I found the following quote written on an "S" alphabet block : "I can't do this. I really can't." and I'm afraid this sprung into my mind. Trust me, my mind scares me too...**

**WARNING: EXTREME ANGST, BE PREPARED!**

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><p><strong>I can't do this<strong>

I stare at his chair. My mind is still so numb. It's been three weeks now… Since he jumped. Since he left my life. Since the world ceased to make any form of sense.

There are cups on the table. This happens every day… Five empty cups, and five cups of cold tea. It's too automatic. I always make him one. As if maybe his spirit would appreciate it. But every day Mrs Hudson sighs, and cleans them up, because I don't. I don't want to.

My emotions are beginning to wake from their slumber. You'd think this was a good thing, but all I feel is pain. I need him back.

I begin to sob. Mrs Hudson is out, nobody will care.

"Sherlock…" I whisper, whimpering a choking on my tears. "Why won't you come back?"

And I realise… I can't live without him. I can't. I don't care if he was a fraud (not that I believe that for a second), or if he didn't want to stay for me. I don't care if he never felt… feels… the same way I feel about him. I just need him back by my side, making snide remarks and just being… Sherlock.

Before I realise it, I'm staring down at the spot that I'd seen him… The moment my life had crumbled. I remember the immeasurable amount of blood, and tears spill down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock… But I can't do this. I really can't." I say. I can feel the exact spot he stood and it comforts me, as though he's watching over me. "Soon, though… I won't have to." I say to him, and I look to the sky, spread my arms, and fall forwards through the rushing air. And in my last moments… I hear his voice.

"John, no!" he cries. I know he wouldn't have wanted me to do this, but I don't care. I close my eyes and smile, knowing I'll be with him soon.

And the world disappears.

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><p><strong>Oh god, I'm so sorry... I feel so cruel! ARGH! THE FEELS ARE KILLING ME!<strong>

**Review please... I know... It's depressing. I'm sorry if I made anyone cry...**


	11. Pancakes

**AN: This one is a request from rosaisanerd , so I hope I did a good job ^_^**

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><p><strong>Pancakes<strong>

_Sherlock tries to make Pancakes for John on Pancake Day. Chaos ensues._

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><p>It was 5am. The sun was just peaking up, beginning to bathe the London cityscape in a soft, golden light. Sherlock stared out at the beautiful scene. If John were up, he'd be mocking his appreciation of the sight, as it was not something Sherlock would be expected to like.<p>

John had been holding in his excitement for Pancake Day all of the day before. Sherlock figured it was because, yet again, John had judged what Sherlock would think incorrectly. Sherlock himself had no interest in the holiday, however he knew john loved it, and had done all his life.

When John was young, it was only beaten by Christmas and his Birthday as his favourite day of the year. It was a family role that pancakes were not eaten at any other time.

As the sun began to stream into the window, Sherlock turned and walked into the kitchen. He had laid out the ingredients with scientific precision.

Poor Mrs Hudson had been made to stay up until gone midnight to help Sherlock tidy, but not once did she complain, too proud of Sherlock's inclination to do something nice for John to care. She wasn't stupid; she could see what was going on. Sherlock was a mystery, but Mrs Hudson had broken through a single part of the haze.

Sherlock had revealed his heart at last. Or, to put it more accurately, he had gained a heart at last.

Sherlock gulped. One of the only things that could possibly make him nervous was cooking. You'd think that his chemical skill would allow for an innate skill for cookery, due to the precision of the tack. This, unfortunately, was not the case.

He set up the frying pan, and began to mix the ingredients together, much of it splattering his silk dressing gown as the speed at which he stirred the mixture increased and decreased at an irregular and frankly ridiculous rate.

His arm was bent at an unnatural angle due to its extreme length. It took him over an hour to get the mixture to the correct consistency before he turned on the hob.

The blue flames danced quickly, flickering occasionally. Sherlock briefly noted that his usually blue silk dressing gown was now only half that colour, as it was now half covered in pancake mix.

He sighed. That was his favourite dressing gown. Ah well. He could just force Mycroft to get him a new one, for the simple price of one of his dull, government related cases, of which he often refused to help with, knowing full well that Mycroft was only asking him to do it because he was "too busy" to do it himself. Sherlock knew well enough that "too busy" did_ not_ mean running the country… As did a certain D.I.

Sherlock forgot to add the oil… He only realised this when the second pancake had taken at least half an hour to remove from the pan. The first had disintegrated…

Then, he added the oil, and immediately put the mix in. This resulted in a horrific gloop, that had the look of some toxic beast. Having not realised this, Sherlock attempted to flip the "pancake". However, due to the density, and the angle of Sherlock's flick, the slop ended up landing just inches freom his foot on the kitchen floor. Of course, he just left it, reasoning that it may come in handy for an experiment later on.

It was now 7am. Five of Sherlock's attempts had already failed. Two of these had seemed to be going well, until he's flipping them. It seemed that yet again, he had created some estranged gloop, but this time it had been of a lower density, and was therefore stuck to the ceiling… Mrs Hudson would _not_ be happy.

Sherlock's fifth pancake had unfortunately found its home on his head. He'd grimaced, wiping it off with his, already ruined, dressing gown to the best of his ability.

So, his sixth pancake was begun. He sighed, and poured the mix in, yet again forgetting the oil.

This time, it ended up on a plate, more of a crisp that a pancake. Sherlock then realised the lack of oil, but decided to try covering it up by loading it with jam.

He only had enough mix for two more attempts. For the first time in years, he contemplated fiving up. The sun had fully risen, and he had just half an hour until John got up. But he wanted to do this. He had to show John he _could_ be nice.

So he was careful. He measured the oil, allowed it to heat up, poured in the mix, keeping the image of John's face in his mind as motication. After twenty minutes, he had successfully made two edible pancakes. They weren't perfect, but he put them either side of the crisp pancake, smeared jam on them, and rolled them up, setting the plate with a kife and fork on a mat on the only part of the table that was partially clean.

Just as he turned the kettle on to make John a cup of tea, he heard creaking overhead.

Two minutes later, and John came down, in his dressing gown, rubbing his eyes. He looked so cute. Sherlock grinning sheepishly at him.

John froze, his arm in mid-air, and his eyes wide.

"Sherlock, what have you _done_ to the kitchen!" he cried. "Your experiments can't taking up the whole fl-" he stopped, seeing the saddened look on Sherlock's face. "What's wrong?"

"I made you breakfast…" Sherlock murmured, blushing a little as he pointed to the plate of pancakes.

"You… made me pancakes…?" John whispered, stunned. "Is that what all this is?" he asked, looking around the room. "Sherlock! Your dressing gown…" he said sadly.

"Yes…uh…" Sherlock, for once in his life, was completely speechless in John's presence.

"But… it's your favourite…"

"It doesn't matter." John blushed.

"I… thank you." He said, making Sherlock blush again. This time, John noticed. "Sherlock? You're blushing…?"

"N-no!" Sherlock cried defensively, turning away to the kettle, although it wasn't boiled yet. John smiled and walked over to him, just avoiding the gloop from earlier.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock turned, shocked to see how close John was to him. "Oh!"

But John said nothing. He just leant up, and locked his lips with Sherlock's, whose heart beat so fast, he thought his chest might burst. The shock of it, however, meant that Sherlock had no time to react between his heart stopping and his mind melting. John pulled away.

"S-sorry…" he muttered. "I didn't mean to…"

"Oh, do shut up, John." Sherlock interrupted, before crashing their lips together again for a moment. They both grinned.

"How long have you…?" John asked quietly.

"A long time… You?" Sherlock replied, just as softly.

"Probably longer." John chuckled. Sherlock smiled.

"Eat your pancakes, John. I'll make the tea."

John grinned, and sat down to the the pancakes. Even he had to admit, they weren't bad.

"You _can _cook…"

"I didn't want to let you down…" Sherlock murmured, putting John's tea down next to his his.

"Thank you, Sherlock…" John said, smiling.

"It's amazing what love can do to a person's skills." Sherlock said, kissing John's cheek, and leaving to change. John was left star-struck, blushing and grinning wildly.

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><p><strong>So, what did you guys think? xxx<strong>

**Please review xxxxxxxxxxx**


	12. Unforgettable

**AN: This time we have a request from lyraeliowy xxx I hope I did good :D x**

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><p><strong>Unforgettable<strong>

_"Unforgettable, that's what you are_  
><em>Unforgettable though near or far<em>  
><em>Like a song of love that clings to me<em>  
><em>How the thought of you does things to me<em>  
><em>Never before has someone been more<em>

_Unforgettable in every way_  
><em>And forever more, that's how you'll stay<em>  
><em>That's why, darling, it's incredible<em>  
><em>That someone so unforgettable<em>  
><em>Thinks that I am unforgettable too"<em>

_Since Sherlock died, John hasn't really dated; since he realised he'd loved Sherlock. It's been three years, and John still hasn't forgotten…_

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><p>10pm. John sat in his chair, sipping tea like he always did. It was Friday. Lestrade had called by earlier, He had a day off and had suggested going to a singles bar. After Sherlock's death, he'd finally seen his wife for the cheater she was and he'd been single ever since.<p>

The very thought of dating, to John, was revolting now. On that day, three years ago, his heart had shattered. People told him to pick up the pieces, forget about Sherlock and the feeling he'd accidentally developed for the detective.

But John hadn't exactly listened.

Yes, he'd picked them up. Every last piece. However, he did not try to piece them together. Instead, he left it shattered. Because piecing them together and moving on meant forgetting Sherlock. It meant forgetting his feelings. And that was impossible. No matter what, Sherlock was completely unforgettable.

John had never felt so at home with anybody else. No one had meant more to him than Sherlock had. Never before had someone been more important. This was why John couldn't date. Because he'd never feel right with anyone else. He had accepted that.

And so, he trudged on with his life; each day was the same routine: get up, eat, work, eat, sit, sleep. And of course around ten cups of tea added to this simple schedule.

Thinking about it, John knew he'd never have meant as much to Sherlock as Sherlock had meant to him. He'd never have held any special place in his heart, because the detective had never had a heart. But John held on to the fact that he'd been Sherlock's only real friend and companion. He strived to keep the happy memories alive.

Perhaps the point when he'd realised how much he cared had come too late… It was merely twelve hours between that moment and Sherlock's death.

They'd been on the run. Hand-cuffed together, and rushing through the back-alleys of London. John had begun to lag, so Sherlock twisted his hand in the cuffs.

"Take my hand!" he cried, his smooth baritone voice full of urgency and, after a moment, their hands were tightly clasped together.

"Now people will definitely talk…" John had said, but as he felt Sherlock's hand locked around his own, and a warmth spread from there, which covered his whole body, John had realised that he didn't care if they talked. Because he _wanted_ it to be more. More than just friends.

At that moment, John had felt _sure_ that Sherlock had a plan. He was certain that they'd make it through this alice. He would make sure of it. And then, when things had called down, he'd tell Sherlock how he felt, and even if he didn't feel the same, he'd have his friend, with his insults and experiments, his cheekbones and scarf, his coat and the collar that came with it.

But no.

Moriarty had had other plans. And John never forgot, would never forget, his feelings. The anger, the despair, but most importantly… the love.

John was broken from his reverie by a slam from downstairs. Mrs Hudson wouldn't go out this late would she? She was usually in bed…

John stood, placing his cup on the mantelpiece, and turned to the doorway. He heard the stairs creak and he gulped. If he died, at least he'd be with…

"Sherlock…?" he whispered, and the familiar dark coat stood in the doorway.

"John…"

John felt like his world had crumbled. Sherlock was alive… But that meant that for 3 years… John hadn't crossed his mind. John fell to his knees, unable to cope. For once, Sherlock seemed to realise what was wrong.

"I never forgot you, John." He said, more emotion in his voice than John had ever heard.

"Then…why?"

"Because Moriarty had a web of assassins… Trained on you. They never left. The slightest inklings that I was alive, and they would have killed you, John." Sherlock explained, and John thought he could see a tear roll down his cheek.

"You didn't… forget me?" John was stunned. "You didn't delete me?"

"I couldn't…" Sherlock stated. "Nor did I want to."

"Couldn't…?"

"How could I? You're unforgettable…" Sherlock trailed off, turning his face away in an attempt to hide the slight blush that had crept into his pale cheeks.

"You think I'm… unforgettable?" John couldn't breathe. Sherlock just nodded, the concept of such emotion had clogged his throat.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke or moved. Finally, Sherlock found his voice again, although he spoke to the floor.

"John, I-I'm so sorry. If you want me to leave, I will. I'm sure you have a life to lead."

"No." John said, firmly. Sherlock looked up, shocked. John stood.

"You don't want me to leave?" Sherlock asked, dumb-founded. "But I thought-"

"That I'd forget you?" Sherlock nodded. "Never."

"But your life-"

"I don't have one, Sherlock. You _were_ my life. You still are."

"John I-" but he stopped himself.

"What?"

"I missed you." He said finally, after a long moment of silence.

"I missed you too, Sherlock…"

They smiled weakly at each other. John's faded a little. It was now or never. Then Sherlock could choose to leave, if he wanted…

"Sherlock… I realised something… before you-"

"Jumped?" Sherlock offered. John flinched at the reminder.

"Y-yeah."

"What was it?" Sherlock asked. John hesitated.

"You've imprinted yourself of my memory… my mind… hy heart." He muttered quietly. "I know you don't really _have_ a heart, so I-I understand if you don't feel the same. But I just wanted you to know how I felt; how I feel."

Sherlock looked down. "You're wrong."

"Huh?"

"You're wrong… I do have a heart…"

"Oh?"

"You."

John stared at him. "Me?"

"Yes, you… You are my heart, John." Sherlock said, looking up to stare into John's eyes, and in his eyes, John saw decades of built up emotion, finally flooding into the world and wrapping around John, giving him a warm feeling, like he was finally complete again.

"You feel the same?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

"I've never… Never before has someone been more…. More than just-"

"I know." John said, walking up to him. "I'm never going to forget you, okay? Or stop believing in you. I never did." He smiled up at Sherlock. "But, I think it's incredible that you… Someone like you, could feel that way. Think that I'm…"

"Unforgettable, too." Sherlock finished for him. John nodded, flushing bright red. "I love you, John." Sherlock said.

"I- I love you too… 'Lock…" John replied, with a grin. "I never thought…" but he was cut off by Sherlock leaning down to lock their lips together, and they clutched each other's hands, vowing silently never to forget each other, and never to leave each other's sides again.

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><p><strong>Wow, such a cheesy ending XD I think the whole thing was cheesy :') I tried to use the song lyrics occassionally, so it was a bit of a song-fic :') xxx<strong>

**REVIEW PLEASE, BECAUSE YOU LOVE ME! xxx**

**Okay, that was scary...**


	13. Comfort

**AN: YAY ANOTHER REQUEST :D This time it's for the wonderful jbdrwholuvr :3 xxxx**

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><p><strong><span>Comfort<span>**

_"Something to do with John and Sherlock going to see a movie?"_ (and said couple WILL see a movie :) x)

Summary: Sherlock takes John to see a movie. Established relationship.

Sherlock sighed. He was upsire down on the sofa, waiting for John to come back. Things were always so _dull_ without John… Why did he have to go to work everyday?

The last case Sherlock had had was a simple robbery he figured out in mere seconds. How very boring…

Adter what seemed like days, Sherlock heard the front door open. He sprang up, flipping himself into a sitting position, just as John came up the stairs.

"Finally." He muttered. Then he saw the look on John's face… "Did you have A&E today?" John nodded. "What happened?"

"Bus accident. Of the seven school children brought in… One survived." John said, his voice cracking. "I couldn't save them… And then… Oh god, so many people died today, Sherlock. I was sickening…" he dropped his bag. Sherlock rose fluidly from the sofa and pilled his boyfriend into a hug.

"It's okay. It wasn't your fault." He assured him, planting a kiss atop John's head. "You did your best."

"But if I'd got there sooner…"

"Shut up, John." Sherlock said. John couldn't help but chuckle a little. "It wasn't your fault." He repeated. John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder, warm and comforting.

They sat down. John went and made tea. It was meant to be a calming mechanism, but today it didn't work… He was far too uptight. Sherlock hated to see John like this. He thought for a moment. He then stood and grabbed his coat and scart.

"Come on, John. We're going out." He announced. John looked up, confused, but he got up and got his own coat on. They hurried out, and Sherlock hailed a cab.

"Where are we going?" John asked, confused.

"You'll see."

It took them a while to reach their destination, but eventually they got there. The cinema.

"Hm? What's going on, 'Lock? Something to do with a case?" John asked. Sherlock sighed.

"No, John. Thank you for thinking that." He muttered. Was it really so bloody hard to see Sherlock having fun?

"Then what's going on?"

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, paying the taxi driver.

"The sinema…"

"What do people usually do at cinemas?"

"Watch fulms…"

"So what are we doing?" Sherlock felt like a teacher trying to coax the correct answer out of a student.

"Are we actually… Going to a movie?" John asked, dumbfounded. Sherlock sighed.

"Yes, we are. What do you want to see?" he asked, gesturing to the list of films on in the next hour. John took a moment, before pointing at the film on in screen 5. It started in half an hour. Sherlock smiled, going quickly to get tickets, while John got snacks. Sherlock probably wouldn't have any, but John got him some popcorn just in case.

About three hours later, they came out grinning..

"The main actor looked just like you." Sherlock said with a chuckle. John scowled.

"I'm not a hobbit!" he exclaimed. Sherlock laughed harder.

"You could've fooled me!" he exclaimed. John pinching his arm lightly.

"I'm not that short." He said defiantly, trying not to smile.

"Yes you are!" Sherlock argued, laughing more. John gave in and laughed too. They hailed a cab and got in.

"So what was that all about, hm?" John asked.

"Hm?"

"Seeing a movie? Why?"

"I thought you needed sheering up." Sherlock said, kissing John's cheek. John blushed, but smiled.

"Thanks, 'Lock." He said, leaning against his boyfriend's shoulder.

"I don't like it when you're upset, John." Sherlock said, letting his hand rest on John's, and entwining their hands together. "I love you too much to bear it."

John smiled.

"I love you too, 'Lock."

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><p><strong>Just noticed I used the same last bit of speech XD lol.<strong>

**Sorry it's not very long by the way XD x**

**Just want to mention my upcoming teen-lock fic :) It's soon to be posted on here. Originally, it was a series of one-shots, but I got a bit carried away, so it's becoming a proper fanfiction :D Please check it out when it arrives xxx**

**I'm still accepting requests x Feel free to suggest songs, or just a prompt :) I love writing them xxxx**

**And also PLEASE REVIEW xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**


	14. Last Call

AN:** This is just a random little thing I just wrote in about 5 minutes.**

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><p><strong>Last Call<strong>

_Sherlock calls John… For the last time._

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><p>"John." His voice is quiet, rough.<p>

"Sherlock?" His voice is calm, drowsy.

"Yes." His voice lacks its usual snarky sarcasm.

"What?" His voice lacks its usual irritation.

"I…" He pauses.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

"I want you to know… You're important." His voice cracks.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" His voice shakes.

"It's over." He says it as though it is a break-up.

"Over?" He asks it as though it is an impossible concept.

"You'll never see me again." He is so quiet, it's unnatural.

"Why?" He is so calm, it's unnatural.

"I can't tell you." His voice breaks, he starts to cry.

"But, Sherlock…" His voice breaks, he starts to cry.

"I'm sorry." He chokes, weakly.

"I need you!" He chokes, desperately.

"Goodbye John." He whispers.

"No…" He breathes.

All John hears is a gun-shot.

All Sherlock hears is silence.

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><p><strong>I don't know why... I was inspired by a picture I saw on Tumblr XD It was just a gif from "The Great Game" so I don't know why... Anyhoo! I hope you all like it :P xxx<strong>

**I have no excuses for this... :/**


	15. I Was Sitting There Waiting

**AN: I finally wrote it up XD This one's quite long, a bit confusing, and I'm not GREATLY proud of it, but oh well...**

**Enjoy xxx**

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><p><strong>I was sitting there waiting<strong>

_"I was sitting there waiting in my room for you." – _Skillet, The Older I Get

_Sherlock sits in his room, contemplating his feeling after a fight with John._

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><p>Sherlock heard the door slam downstairs.<p>

"John…?" he called feebly. He lifted his arm and gently touched the place on his cheek where John's palm had collided with it, before he'd stormed out. It had hurt, yet the warmth emanating from it wasn't just pain.

John had been upset. His latest girlfriend had ended it with him, complaining (yet again) about his lack of commitment to her; he often had to bail out of dates because of a case. Despite the fact he was only marginally upset about it, Sherlock had tried to comfort his friend.

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><p>"Don't worry, John. She wasn't worth it anyway. You won't be single for long." He'd said, placing a hand on John's shoulder. Apparently, he'd said something wrong though, because John threw Sherlock's hand away roughly, standing and spinning around to face him.<p>

"What the hell are you implying, Sherlock?!" he'd bellowed. Sherlock held his hands up defensively.

"Nothing, John. I was simply-" he was cut off by John's angry yelling.

"Saying I'm a slag! That's what you were saying!" he had continued.

"No! I just meant that…" but he stopped as John's hand swung around to slap him around the face, and all he could do was stand there, stunned and shocked, as John and turned and stormed from the flat.

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><p>"What did I say…?" he asked himself. "I never meant that he was… Oh, god…" he let his head fall into his hands, and he walked into his room, slamming the door.<p>

He sat on his bed heavily. How could he let this happen? Somehow, he always upset John, when he was only trying to help.

He knew for a fact that John hadn't really cared about this latest girl. What was her name? Jane? Janine? No… Who cared anyway? John had only really cared for the sex anyway.

Sherlock always found himself hating each new girlfriend progressively more. More than his usual dislike for passers-by due to his sociopathic nature. He truly hated them. Having them anywhere near him wasn't just annoying, not just an inconvenience, it was upsetting. But why?

Why did he deliberately wait until John was on a date to go hunting for a killer? Why did he always make him leave his dates early? Because he needed his help? No… he'd always managed fine before, so that wasn't it.

Hi cheset hurt. He held his hand to it. He felt sick too. He'd been fine before John had left. Was he feeling so terrible because he'd upset John? He'd researched this… It only really happened when someone you really cared about got upset at you. Did Sherlock care that much for John?

What a stupid question, of course he did. John was his best- his only friend. But was that really all it was? Yes. Yes, of course it was… How could it be more?

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><p>John felt his hand collide with Sherlock's face. He'd just… Oh, god. He turned and ran from the flat as fast as he could, slamming the door in his hurry.<p>

He walked quickly through the cold night air, taking deep breathes, trying to calm himself. Okay, so he'd slapped Sherlock… That was established. But why? Now _that_ wasn't so simple. He could have _sworn_ that in Sherlock's statement he'd heard "you're a slag". Granted, that hadn't exactly come out of his mouth, but the point still stood… It had been implied.

True enough, John had been through about six girlfriends in the last two months alone, but did that really make him a slag? Sure, John hadn't really cared about any of them emotionally… Did that make him a slag? He did it for the sex… Yes, that made him a slag.

Without realising it, John had found himself in the park. He sighed, sitting on a bench and letting his head fall into his hands. Why did he do this? Why did he get involved with women he didn't care about? He couldn't understand it…

Sherlock had been right. He _was_ a slag.

* * *

><p>Sherlock could feel his hands shaking as he steepled them beneath his chin. His breathing was irregular and rough, his lips quivering. He'd never meant to upset John. He hadn't even meant that he was a slag. He knew John never meant to hurt anyone, and Sherlock didn't care anyway. Although, every time John brought someone home, he'd ignore them both, pretend to be buried in his experiments. But then he'd hear then, and his stomach would churn. He'd try and drown it out with his violin, but it wouldn't work. He'd still hear it. He'd go into his room and bury his head in the covers, with pillows over his ears. Nothing could get rid of the terrible sick feeling, or the pain in his chest…<p>

* * *

><p>John had always assumed Sherlock didn't care. He'd bring someone home, and Sherlock would be so adsorbed in the research that it was like they didn't exist.<p>

The next morning, Sherlock would be in the same position. But John never noticed that Sherlock was the slightest bit paler, and he had dark circles under his eyes. Nor could he see the torture deep behind the glassy surface of his eyes.

John though back over the argument… Sherlock had said he _'wouldn't be single long'_. He'd protested when John had asked him what he meant. Had he really not meant it like that? As John thought it over, he mentally kicked himself.

"You _fucking idiot_." He muttered to himself. "He was trying to be sympathetic… He was really trying- oh, _god_… what have I done?" and he returned his head to his hands as a tear fell from his eye.

* * *

><p>Sherlock turned his mind to the last time John had announced his new girlfriend.<p>

_"Sherlock, I'm going out with Joanne!"_

Joanne! That was the name!

_"Oh, who's that?"_

_"She's from work…"_

_"Oh. Well, have fun."_

He remember the sadness. The disappointment that John was going out with _another_ girl…

And then earlier that evening, when he'd returned having been dumped by Joanne…

_"How was it?"_

_"She dumped me…"_

_"Oh…"_

Sherlock remembered the leap of happiness he had secretly felt. But he'd seen the dejected look on John's face. He'd stood, and gone over to try and comfort him. And, well… the rest is history, as they say.

He _never_ cared about how other people felt…. Never. He'd been happy, and that should have been enough bu when he saw how sad John was… His happiness had meant nothing. He wanted John to be happy.

* * *

><p>John felt so stupid. Sherlock had tried to cheer him up, for the first time ever… And what had John done? He'd bloody shouted at him!<p>

He looked up at the sky. No clouds tonight… The stars were sparkling and the moon was full. He suddenly wished Sherlock were with him, and he found his hand clutching at air.

* * *

><p>Should he wait for John to come back? Should he let him cool off? He ran his hands though his hair. Things were too quiet…<p>

"Ooh, ooh!" came Mrs Hudson's call from outside the door. "Is everything alright, Sherlock? Is John not back yet?" Sherlock didn't answer, so she continued. "Can I come in?" Sherlock grunted, and she pushed the door open gently. "Oh, what's wrong dear?" she asked, sitting next to him, and touching his arm.

"I think I upset him…" Sherlock muttered. "He came back upset. I tried to comfort him, but I suppose I said something wrong…" Mrs Hudson had never heard the man so sad and uncertain.

"Why don't you go and find him?" she suggested.

"What if he's still upset with me?" Sherlock muttered. MRs Hudson suddenly felt like a mother assuring a teenager…

"If he knows you didn't mean it, he'll forgive you." She said. Sherlock turned to her, smiling, and pulled her into a hug.

"Thank you." He said. They went into the hall together, and Sherlock quickly got his coat and scarf on.

"Good luck dear!" Mrs Hudson called as he went out of the door hurriedly. She then proceeded to go to bed.

* * *

><p>John breathed on his hand, and rubbed them together. It was so cold… He sat back down, too scared to return to the flat. What if Sherlock was annoyed with him for being so stupid?<p>

But then… Sherlock had never cared before… He never sympathised. He'd never said nice things to him before. He'd never cared when he'd broken up with Sarah… Or any of the others. So why…And he realised. Sherlock didn't want to see him sad… So he'd tried to – DAMN IT!

* * *

><p>Sherlock walked along the streets that he and John would run through. Where would he be…? He thought a moment, and decided he'd try the park, it was quiet there. He stepped through the gate, and headed for the lake.

He saw a silhouette, sat with his head in his hands. As he got closer, he saw it was John. HE was shivering. He hadn't brought a coat.

"Here…" Sherlock muttered, removing his coat and draping it around John's shoulders. He sat next to him. "I'm sorry John. I was only trying to cheer you up. I suppose I made it worse."

"No, Sherlock." John said. "I misunderstood you. I never meant to… I never meant to hit you… I'm sorry." He looked up at Sherlock. "Thanks for the coat…" he added with a smile. Sherlock turned and smiled too.

"I hated to see you so down." Sherlock admitted, looking away again. His voice was quieter tha normal. "But to be honest, I was glad she'd dumped you…" he hated to lie. He didn't want to upset John, but lying to him was worse.

"I know." John muttered, with a light chuckle. "You never like them, so I understand."

"No, you don't." Sherlock stated.

"Oh?" John prompted. Sherlock gulped. This was _not_ his strong point.

"When you bring them home… I pretend to be researching. I try to ignore it. Then when you're…" he coughed. "I play the violin, I cover my ears. I try anything to drown it out…"

"Oh god… I didn't realise. Sherlock, I'm so sorry." John stammered.

"I feel sick." Sherlock continued. "And my chest hurts." John looked up. "I don't understand, John… Why does it hurt?"

John looked out at the lake. The moon reflected in the shimmering water, surrounded by stars. Sherlock was looking down, wringing his hands together. John placed his hand on top of Sherlock's.

Sherlock's heart stopped, thanks to the electric pulse sent through his body from his hands. His head whipped up to look at John. He couldn't comprehend what was happening…

"What… Why does this…?" he couldn't finish.

"Why does it feel nice?" John finished for him. Sherlock nodded. "Because I only went out with all those women…" Sherlock flinched at the thought, "to escape my true feelings…" he whispered. Sherlock frowned at him,c onfused. John didn't look back. "I know… I though… It would never happen. That you'd never…" he tried to withdraw his hand, but Sherlock caught it.

"That I'd never…?"

"Feel the same." John breathed.

"And how do you feel…?" Sherlock asked.

"I- no. I won't." John insisted. "Because you won't understand." And he pulled his hand away, standing to walk to the edge of the lake. He left Sherlock's coat on the bench. He started shivering again.

"You're cold, John." Sherlock stated, taking his coat and offering it to John again. John pushed him away.

"Please, Sherlock…"

"John, I need your help!" Sherlock blurted out suddenly. John turned to him, shocked. Sherlock never needed help… Or if he did, he didn't _admit_ it. Sherlock's face was filled with pain, and John found it impossible to ignore him. "I don't understand… Why does it hurt when you're with them? Why am I so happy when they break up with you? _Why do I feel lost without you?_"

John couldn't comprehend it… Sherlock really didn't understand… Did he dare believe that Sherlock could be… feeling?

"I don't know…" he lied.

"Yes you do. Please, John! It's killing me!" And that look of pain and desperation that filled his eyes nearly broke John's heart.

"I never thought you could feel… the way I feel."

"But how do you feel?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I… I feel lost without you." Sherlock looked at him.

"That's how I feel… But what does it mean?"

"It means I… I love you… More than just a friend. I wanted to escape it. How could you ever feel that way?" John asked.

"But… I do. I must… How else do you explain it? I was… jealous of them…" he realised.

"You were jealous?" John asked.

"Of how close they were to you… I guess."

"You're… guessing?"

"I don't understand emotions, John… I deleted them a long time ago." Sherlock explained. "But it seemed they're… Coming back."

"Really?"

"Only with you. I don't feel anything with anyone else…"

"Well, at least I can't get jealous, huh?" John said with a smile and a quiet chuckle. Sherlock sniggered. "So… you?"

"Yes, I suppose… I love you, too…" he said. John's heart leapt. But he was still shivering. Sherlock wrapped his coat around John's shoulders. John looked at him and wrapped his arm around his skinny waist. A warmth flooded them both, as Sherlock let his arm fit snuggly around John's shoulders.

"Really?"

"Yes… I love you, John." He confirmed, planting a gentle kiss atop his head. "It's a beautiful night, isn't it?"

"Yes, the most beautiful night in a long while." John repled. Sherlock chuckled. "What?"

"So cheesy, John." He said, with a smile.

"It's one of those nights."

"I look forward to the poems, John."

John blushed. He'd forgotten that Sherlock had read all his old emails back when he'd actually cared about the girls he dated…

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hope y'all liked it :3 x<strong>


	16. Don't Talk About This

**AN: Hey guys! I'm back again. So sorry about the lack of updates, but I've been doing my uni' applications as well as NaNoWriMo (which I'm not gonna get finished but oh well XD)**

**Not greatly proud of the start of this one, but it gets better, honest :P x**

* * *

><p><strong>Don't Talk About This<strong>

_"I'm in so deep, I'm scared to death… I feel so juvenile, emotions going wild. Love is brutal, my heart is fragile. Please don't talk about this love; the less they know, the less they judge. Don't talk about this love to anyone… I don't want the world to know, until I'm sure that you're the one. Don't talk about this love to anyone… Love is a ghost, the fear to touch, in case I lose my innocence…" _– Don't talk about this love, Cheryl Cole

_Established relationship. John and Sherlock are together, but Sherlock is scared, and insists they keep it quiet._

* * *

><p>"Okay, Sherlock. Okay." John sighed. "We'll keep it quiet for now. Don't worry."<p>

Sherlock was threatening to take cocaine again if they couldn't keep their relationship quiet. John hated it when Sherlock took drugs, and he conceded. He didn't understand _why_ Sherlock insisted they keep it quiet though… He'd never been so nervous.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, back to his normal self. John sighed again.

"What about Mrs Hudson?"

"I suppose _she_ can know… If she swears not to tell anyone."

"Mycroft?"

"NO!" Sherlock cried before John had even fully finished the name. John couldn't help but burst into laughter. "What?"

"Just how you reacted." John breathed as his laughter began to die down. "Have you checked for cameras lately?" his tone was a little patronizing.

"I checked this morning. And last night…" Sherlock said. John laughed again.

"Not paranoid then?" he asked, before settling himself beside Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock shrugged, as he wrapped a slender arm around his blogger's shoulder, pulling him close. John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder, drinking in the smell of him, and the warmth he radiated.

* * *

><p>The next day, John awoke to the sound of Sherlock's phone ringing. He groaned as Sherlock stretched his arm across him to get it. So much for a lie in…<p>

"Hello?" Sherlock croaked. "I was asleep, for once…" he muttered grumpily as an explanation to whoever was on the other end (probably Lestrade).

"Who is it, 'Lock?" John asked. Sherlock tensed.

"That was nothing." He said to the person on the other end.

"I'll be there soon. Bye." He finished, pressing the red button and putting his phone back on the bedside table.

"Well?"

"Lestrade. Case." Sherlock said shortly. John sighed. "You shouldn't have asked who it was while I was still talking." Sherlock continued, rolling out of bed. John admired him for a moment, as her walked to the wardrobe and pulled on some trousers and that purple shirt John loved so much, the one that struggled to keep itself together. "Lestrade heard you." Reverie shattered…

"Oh. Sorry." John muttered, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Don't worry, I'll sort it…" Sherlock said, unsure whether John heard, and not really caring if he had; his reaction to such a statement couldn't be good.

* * *

><p>John tried to hold Sherlock's hand in the taxi, but he snatched it roughly away. John sighed sadly. Why the hell was Sherlock so against anyone knowing? He couldn't even let some anonymous Taxi-driver see the smallest sign of affection? Then again… Their experience with taxi-drivers wasn't amazing… But it was still so excuse!<p>

When they got to Scotland Yard, John knew no affection would be apparent. He tried to act normal though, pretending to the best of his ability that it didn't kill him inside.

"Hey guys." Greg said with a smile.

"What have you got?" Sherlock asked, straight to the point as usual.

"Murder. Assumed domestic, but the suspect says it wasn't her…" Greg explained, handing over the files. "so, you were asleep when I called?"

"Yes." His reply was short, nervous, although only John could tell that.

"John was with you?" Greg asked, suspicious. John blushed.

"I was on the sofa." Sherlock said, as though it were true. "Where's the crime scene?" he asked.

"Oh. Okay…" he didn't look convinced, but he let it go for the sake of argument (or to avoid it). "It's on the outskirts of the city. I'm heading down now."

"We'll follow in a cab." Sherlock muttered. Greg nodded and they all left the room.

The taxi ride was unbearably awkward.

"Why did you say that?" John asked, hurt.

"Say what?" Sherlock acted oblivious. John wanted to strangle him.

"You know what…" he growled.

"I said it to throw him off."

"What _is_ your problem!?" John exclaimed. Sherlock said nothing, he just stared out of his window as rain began to fall outside, darkening the city, and John's mood.

It took Sherlock less than a second to confirm that the woman being accused really _hadn't _done it, and it then took him a minute to work out who did. This was what happened when he was keeping his mind off something else; he dived in the work. In this case, he was trying not to think of John…

* * *

><p>The journey home was even <em>more<em> awkward than the journey there (if that was really possible), because now John was ignoring Sherlock. When they finally got home, he exploded.

"Okay, what the fuck!?" he cried, startling poor Mrs Hudson, whom he had not noticed. "Why are you so against people knowing!? I don't recall doing anything to deserve this, so explain!" His arms waved madly in the air as he erupted in fury. Sherlock just stared. John was now breathing heavily and scowling with venom at Sherlock. The silence hung thick and heavy, like mud, in the air between the,. Sherlock still said nothing, and John growled. "Are you ashamed of it? Huh!? The great Sherlock Holmes displays emotions! How awful! You immaculate reputation is too important, is it? Too important to show a little affection; too important to let go of for me!? Am I not good enough? Not worth it? Not worthy of you?" John felt a tear slip down his cheek. He knew he'd never really mean that much to Sherlock… But his heart stopped when he saw the terrified, broken look Sherlock's usually stone face had twisted into.

"That's not true…" Sherlock whispered, his voice, usually so calm and smooth, breaking a little. John stood still, shocked into silence. He'd never seen Sherlock like that; so exposed and hurt and… vulnerable. Sherlock was never vulnerable. Never had such a haunted pain twisted his feature and it gave John the feeling of a rock dropping into his stomach. "That's not… No… Not true… Not…" Sherlock stammered brokenly. His voice was higher than normal, and it was shaking. John couldn't move as he saw, through the windows of Sherlock's glassy eyes, his calmness crumble as he broke like a thin layer of ice over a lake in winter, the slightest touch able to destroy him.

"Then… why?" John finally choked. His throat was clogged, he could hardly breathe, let alone speak. "Why won't you tell people?" he tried to keep the blockage from affecting his voice, but to noavail. His words came out in rasps, his throat raw and uneven.

"I…" Sherlock looked away. John could see it in his face… He didn't want to say. He didn't want to admit to John, his best friend (hell, his_ boyfriend_) that he was uncertain, scared; that something was wrong.

"Sherlock?" John moved towards him, reaching out to place his hand on Sherlock's arm. "You can tell me. I'm here for you." Now _that_ was something he'd never expected to need to say. When he didn't get a reply he added: "Please, Sherlock. I care about you, but I need to know what's going on!"

"I'm scared of what they'll think, okay!?" Sherlock blurted in a mad rush. "Or more… What they'll say, or-or do…" he muttered as an afterthought. "You heard the tone in Lestrade's voice today… If he found out… He'd… Well, I don't know. But if _Anderson_ found out! I'd never hear the end of it!"

"I though you never let them get to you…" John muttered, guilt rushing in on him like a tidal wave, crashing down on his heart. Sherlock looked down.

"I _don't_ let them… It's not what they'd say about me, John… It's…" he struggled to finish. "It's what they'd say about you." He finally whispered. John's heart stopped. "I've seen how Donovan taloks to you, judges you for even being around me. Imagine what she'd say if she knew we were- well, you know." John couldn't react. "And the newspapers! And the rumours! And, oh John I can't stand to see that, because it may not get to me, but it gets to you! And that gets to me!" he cried. He took a few deep breaths, wiping the tears that had yet to fall from his eyes away swiftly. John tried to steady his breathing.

"You didn't want them to judge… me?" he asked. "You didn't want Sally to know I've slept with you because you thought she'd upset me about it? You didn't want Lestrade to know because you thought he'd laugh? Or react in a similarly bad way? You were trying to… protect me?" John was astonished. He knew Sherlock cared for him more than he'd ever cared for anyone (which wasn't difficult), but he'd never even dreamed of him being so protection, so caring… to think about that; to think about how the reactions could hurt him.

"If I bumble about, and get things wrong, you can blame my lack of experience. But I don't want to bring you down with me." Sherlock announced. "Hard as it is to believe, I do care deeply for you, John." It seemed he had found his normal voice again. "That means I don't want you hurt. By anyone."

"I… thank you. But Sherlock, it's okay. I _want _people to know. I _want_ people to know I'm dating the greatest man in the world. And I don't care what they think of me for it. So please. Can we tell people?" he asked. Sherlock thought for a moment before sighing in defeat.

"Okay." He said, taking John's hands in his own. "I'm sorry, John. I was just trying to protect you."

"I know, but how about asking my opinion next time?" John said light-heartedly. Sherlock blushed and nodded sheepishly, before John grinned and leant up to brush they lips together, too lost in the moment to realise Mrs Hudson had been watching the whole time. The two lovers were also too distracted to hear the quiet "aw" she uttered.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Aww, and everything is happy again :) Sorry if Sherlock was really OOC, but *shrug* watcha gonna do? x<strong>


	17. Dreamcatcher

**AN: I haven't uploaded a one-shot for a while, and I have to say I'm pretty proud of this :) I was prompted by an anonymous request (from a review on my teenlock fic "A Key To Fit The Lock") and all they said was "dream-fic" so I hope I got this right! If you were the requester, please let me know what you think :) xxx**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Dream-catcher<strong>

_John keeps having nightmares… Sherlock vows to find a way to help him. An anonymous request._

* * *

><p>At first, Sherlock ignored the many times he would hear John sit bolt upright in bed, or the times he would toss and turn. The creaks were bearable.<p>

He managed to ignore the occasional scream, when he knew John was reliving a particularly violent part of his service in Afghanistan. In fact, he managed to ignore all of this for well over 6 months, which he was rather proud of, considering his finely tuned attention to detail.

After that, it slowly got more and more annoying, and the nights he actually tried to sleep, he was often unsuccessful, because all he could hear was John struggling with his nightmares. The days and weeks began to blur, until finally, in a fit of exhaustion, he burst…

"Goodnight Sherlock." John muttered.

"Hmph…" was all he could muster. He had to keep his brain occupied, lest it fall to the state normal people held, so he was experimenting.

"Sherlock?" John knew better than to disturb his friend while he was experimenting, but he had sensed agitation in Sherlock's reply, if it could be called that, and some strange masochistic part of him wanted to know what he'd done.

"Just don't worry about disturbing me." Sherlock spat sarcastically, not even looking up from the tortured lung he had before him. When John didn't react, Sherlock elaborated. "Just don't mind how I won't be able to sleep again…"

"What? Is something wrong, Sherlock?" John, clueless and ever, prompted.

"You, John! Your damned war-nightmares! You keep me awake all night with your tossing and turning! I haven't slept in months… I may never usually wish to waste my precious time on such trivial matters, but my brain is suffering from the lack of rest… My work will suffer, and as you well know that is the only thing that matters!" with his rant over, Sherlock returned to his lung, but was devastated and enraged to find the experiment ruined because he had taken his eyes off it. "DAMN!" he cried, throwing the already severely abused organ at the wall. John simply stared, before fleeing the room in silence. He could only hope Sherlock was in a better mood the next morning.

He wasn't… In fact, if it were possible, he was in an even _worse_ mood. They said nothing to each other, and John left for work feeling particularly crap.

When he returned, Sherlock was asleep on the sofa. Sherlock never slept in the day… Even with the lack of sleep, surely he wouldn't willingly… But John saw the book discarded on the floor, inches from his hand. Of course… Sherlock's mind had _forced_ him to sleep.

John sat down and watched Sherlock sleeping, his face tranquil and peaceful, and John immediately felt a horrid pang in his chest. Guilt. He was stopping Sherlock from sleeping. _Sherlock_, the one that didn't even care for sleep in the slightest. John sighed, resolving to go and make himself a cup of tea. Tea always made him feel better.

He waited patiently for Sherlock to wake up, so he could apologise, but he felt his consciousness slipping, as darkness enveloped him…

Sherlock awoke feeling refreshed for the first time in weeks, and with that came a clearer head. As he sat up, he saw John was sprawled gracelessly in his armchair, sound asleep. It seemed that for the first time, he was sleeping rather soundly, with little or no trace of nightmares. Sherlock couldn't help but smile a little and the peace and calm on John's face. The wrinkles of stress that usually plagued his forehead had smoothed out and a light smile graced his lips.

Sherlock leant down to whisper softly into his friend's ear.

"I'm sorry, John. I should never have snapped. You need sleep far more than I." and he gently picked John up out of the chair, and took him up the stairs to his own bed, tucking him in carefully. "I'll find a way make the nightmares stop… For your sake." He said, as though making a promise. He then turned and left John to sleep.

As John slept, Sherlock researched. He help little faith in many of the methods, however one jumped out at him as something that, although it could in no way be real, it may provide enough psychological evidence to at least allow John to believe it. And if John believed it, there a chance that it might work.

Sherlock swept from the flat just as John sat bold upright in his bed, having suffered another nightmare. _Wait… I'm in my bed? How did that happen? _He thought, but he ignored it, since he felt a lot less tired than usual. Had he actually been sleeping peacefully before the nightmare? When had he fallen asleep? How did he get in bed? Questions buzzed in his mind, but he tried to ignore them.

He sighed, eventually rolling out of bed. He didn't want to try sleeping again, at the risk of another nightmare. So yet again… he made tea.

He was half-way through his cup, when he heard the door downstairs, and up the stairs bounded Sherlock.

"Oh! You're awake!" he exclaimed.

"I had another nightmare." John muttered.

"Oh… But you were so peaceful when I carried you up to your room…" he said, a little sad. John didn't really notice that though, as he turned bright red.

"You… you carried me?!" he cried.

"Yes… I thought you might hurt yourself if you stayed in the chair."

"Why do you care?" John muttered, remembering how Sherlock had yelled before.

"Forgive me, I never meant to upset you before. I was simply tired."

"How did – oh, never mind…"

"Here." Sherlock said quietly, thrusting a small box at John. It was brown and plain, but wooden; obviously not cheap…

"What's this?"

"For you… I hoped it might stave off the nightmares. Not for my sake, for yours… You've been quite tired of late." Sherlock explained. John frowned.

"Are you okay, Sherlock? You're being terribly nice. Or am I dreaming?"

"Honestly, John. I am simply concerned for your well-being. What is so hard to believe about that?"

"Everything…"

"Just open the box."

John did as he was told, and gently prised the lid off. Beneath the tissue was a small widen dream-catcher. It was made of a beautiful dark brown wood, one that John couldn't help but compare to Sherlock's hair. Hanging from the circle of wood was a collection of beautiful brown and white feathers, and small brown beads at the top of each.

"A… Dream catcher?"

"Yes, John… Surely that much is obvious."

"W-well… Of course but – wait, how much was this?"

"Does that really matter?"

"Well… I don't want you to spend money on me."

"Money is inconsequential, John." Sherlock muttered. John said nothing more on the subject, as Sherlock had left before he could…

He hung the dream catcher on his head-board that night, and went to sleep, hopeful.

The next morning, John was already awake when Sherlock came out of his room.

"John?"

"It didn't work…" John muttered sadly. Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"Hm… I felt certain the superstitions surrounding the strange item would be enough… It seems I was wrong." He was clearly ruffled by that fact. "This warrants further research." He muttered.

"All this so I don't disturb you?" John muttered under this breath. Sherlock's head snapped to look at his flatmate. "W-what?"

"You think I'm doing this for me?"

"Well… Of course."

"John, your faith in my capacity as a friend is much less than I had really hoped…" Sherlock grumbled.

"Oh… You mean…" John trailed off.

"Yes, John. I am doing this for _your_ benefit. Not mine." And John couldn't help but smile a little. Sherlock returned it as he pulled his laptop onto his knee and began researching again.

John still had to go to work, so he left Sherlock with the command to eat something later.

When he returned, Sherlock had barely moved, still sat in exactly the same position, and still researching. John stopped in the doorway.

"Sherlock…" he muttered, his exhaustion not permitting him anything more energetic. When he got no response, he moved over and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. The detective looked over to him. "Have you eaten?" Sherlock just shook his head and returned to his research. "Oh, Sherlock…"

John made Sherlock some toast, and a cup of tea for them both. "Here, eat it." He said. Sherlock looked up. However, he made no move to take the toast. "Sherlock, you're doing this research for me right?"

"Yes." Sherlock said, without moving.

"Well, think of this as me paying back the favour by making sure you don't starve…" he explained. Sherlock sighed in defeat, taking the toast. John smiled. Sherlock was done quickly and was soon back to researching, but at least he'd eaten it.

John sank gratefully into his chair, glad for the rest, and he was soon asleep. Sherlock looked up for a moment, noticing the change in John's pattern of breathing. He seemed calm, so he continued researching. He only looked up again when John's breathing became erratic. Another nightmare.

Sherlock stood and went over to his friend, studying his tortured expression, wishing desperately that he could find some way of making it all go away.

"I will stop these nightmares, John… I swear." He said, determinedly, placing his hand atop John's gently. Immediately, the tortured expression on John's face seemed to melt away, replaced by a serenity and calm Sherlock hadn't seen on John's face before. Sherlock frowned, and removed his hand experimentally. The expression returned full force. Sherlock eyes widened in revelation as he replaced his hand and John calmed again. He couldn't help but smile at the sudden, wonderful breakthrough, but now he had a new problem… How to put it into action.

"Hm… Is that too odd? Will you be angry if I do that, John?" he asked his flatmate vaguely, not actually saying what he was referring to. "Well… You can't sleep here, either way… And if you're alone, you'll simply have another nightmare. It seems I have no other choice." He whispered serenely, with a gentle smile. "I'll just have to be your dream catcher instead." He stroked a stray strand of John's hair out of his eye, before carefully lifting him out of the chair and carrying him to the only double bed in the flat… Sherlock's.

Setting him down and pulling one side of the covers over him, Sherlock then went to the other side and crawled in next to John, pulling the covers up, and wrapping his gangly arms protectively around his sleeping blogger.

For a moment, he tried to picture John's reaction when he awake beside the detective, and the extensive amount of possibilities eventually had the effect of counting sheep, and he drifted quietly into a dreamless sleep himself, warm and cosy beside John.

John could feel warmth cocooning his body. It was only a vague sensation due to the massive cloud that his tired body was hindering his every sense with, but it was there. He noticed that for the first time in a very long while, he felt completely rested. Not only that, but there was no aftermath from a terrifying nightmare. No echoing shouts or screams. No ghosting pain from an imaginary wound… He couldn't help smiling contentedly at the feeling, which was something he'd never thought he'd feel again.

Slowly, though, his body and mind began to wake up, gaining clarity with every passing moment, and he first noticed that the warmth was primarily coming from behind him. The second thing he noticed, were the thin arms that encircles him, and the hands tightly clasped together at his stomach. He knew those hands. Those hands could only belong to one person, and looking at them, bleary-eyed though John was, his heart leapt with a sickening force… They were _Sherlock's_ hands. _Sherlock_ was behind him; _Sherlock_ was the warmth… As it began to register with him, John's body revolted again the shock unexpected contact, jumping a little as he sat upright and huddled to the other side of the bed. A small part of him regretted this action immediately though, as the warmth was torn away from him… And then another part of him also regretted it, quite a bit more, as he watched Sherlock startle awake, and he was overcome with guilt. Thankfully, though, that feeling dissipated when Sherlock spoke.

"Ah, good morning John. I see that possible reaction number twenty-four came true, then." The sleepy detective mumbled, with a small smirk.

"T-twenty-four?" John stammered, his eyes wide.

"Oh, there were lots more. I didn't even get through all of them before I got to sleep!" Sherlock announced. John simply stared at him. "So… You have questions, I assume." Sherlock said calmly, propping himself up on one elbow, and resting his head against his palm patiently.

"Well… I think the biggest one is… Why the hell am I in _your_ bed?"

"It's the only double. Next." He muttered with a wave of his hand.

"Um… Why were you hugging me?"

"It's simply the most effective way of ensuring contact is kept throughout the night."

"WHY!?" John finally exploded.

"Well, it seemed that since your dream catcher didn't work, I had to find another way to stave off your nightmares. When I picked you up to move you from the chair, it seemed that contact with me was capable of stopping the dreams, so therefore the logical solution was continual contact through the night. Quite simple really." He explained. For a moment, John couldn't react, and Sherlock just waited for him to speak.

"This… Was to stop my nightmares?" he finally muttered slowly, trying to let it sink in.

"Yes."

"But… why?" John frowned. "Was I disturbing you? If I was, I'm sorry…"

"No, John. I've said before. I wanted to stop them for _your_ sake. Perhaps it comes as a bit of a surprise to you, but I do care for you."

"Oh… Then, I wasn't disturbing you?"

"No! Well… Yes, of course. But that wasn't why I wanted to stop them. It… It hurt me to see you so tired. The feeling may be new to me… But it is recognisable."

"Well… Thank you, I guess. But…"

"What?"

"It's a bit of an awkward solution, isn't it?" John muttered, failing miserably to stop the slight blush that suddenly insisted on colouring his cheeks. Sherlock shrugged.

"I don't believe so." He said. "Why? Do you find sleeping in the same bed as me odd?"

John started. "Yes! Especially when you say it like that!"

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. This seemed to be revealing more and more interesting information.

"Do you have any better suggestions?"

"W-well, maybe I didn't give the dream catcher enough of a chance…!"

"John, if the superstition hasn't worked already, it won't work now. Trust me." Sherlock muttered.

"I-… I have nothing then."

"There you go then… What exactly is your problem with it, hm?" his calmness was unnerving, but John tried to continue.

"I- well… I just don't feel comfortable with it."

"Would you prefer to tell me why it makes you uncomfortable, or shall I deduce it out of you?" Sherlock muttered darkly.

"Sherlock!"

"I already know, so why hide it?" Sherlock said, his confidence overflowing.

"You're bluffing! You have no idea! You're just trying to trick me!"

"John, honestly… Who are you talking to?" Sherlock asked, patronisingly.

"You don't know… You can't…" John's voice was fading, as it squeaked.

"You wish to test me?"

"I-"

"John."

"Y-yes?" and the torrent began.

"You haven't stopped blushing since you woke up. You also haven't come near me, and if I try to go near you…" he reached experimentally towards John, who immediately jerked away, nearly falling off the bed in the process, "you try to get away from me. This suggests you feel threatened by the possible revealing of an embarrassing secret, which I shall assume you've been keeping quite successfully for some time, and certainly one which I have no qualms in unearthing… Considering I have basically figured it out already." He said quickly. "So. Do you give in? Will you tell me?" he added, slower.

"No! I still think you're lying! If you know, then go ahead and say it. Get it over with."

A long silence (or at least it felt like a life-time) passed between them, John trying to avoid Sherlock's gaze, but eventually being unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock's, as the icy blue cut through his defences, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. He shuddered.

"You have feelings for me."

John's heart stopped.

"What?" he breathed.

"I believe you heard me."

"But…"

"Am I correct?"

John remained silent for a moment, gathering the shattered remains of his thoughts.

"John?"

"Well… How di- no… I won't ask. I don't want to know."

"Okay."

"I just…" he sighed and got of the bed mechanically, turning to the door and opening it.

"John?"

"Don't. Just… Just don't."

"What is it? What's the problem?"

John paused, his fist clenching around the door-handle.

"What's. The. Problem…? WHAT'S THE PROBLEM!? REALLY, SHERLOCK!? WHAT'S THE FUCKING PROBLEM!? Do you know…? Do you realise how long I've been trying to hide my feelings? How _long_ I have fretted over how you'd react if you ever found out!? How careful I've been!? And you just… _DEDUCE_ it out of me as if… as if it's nothing but a fucking _EQUATION!_ You just… you disregard me feeling as if everything can just be normal, like we can forget it. Well, it can't… I can't. I can't go on as if this hasn't happened, as if you don't know… I just… I can't take it. And you know what? If- if that means I have to suffer nightmares for the rest of my life… Then… Then so be it!" and with that he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

For a moment, Sherlock just stared at the door, shell shocked and unable to react to what had just happened. Then it dawned on him that had John been simply a spectator to that moment, he would most certainly have labelled it as 'not good'. Sherlock gulped, guilt flooding him. He had never meant to upset John.

Eventually, he managed to find some energy from somewhere, and he stood, moving out of the room. He could hear John coming down the stairs… And he had a suitcase, which he was attempting (quite futily) to carry quietly down the stairs. Sherlock stood at the bottom of the stairs to greet him.

"John. You don't have to leave."

"Wow, Sherlock. You sound even more like a robot than usual. I am leaving; you can't stop me." John said, a determined look in his eyes, which were filling with tears that John was desperately trying to suppress.

"I think I can."

"Well, why would you? How could you – oh yes, of course… You're a machine, and you don't understand how much it hurts to be in love with someone who you _know_ will never love you back; and now that you know, it's just too difficult for me… I can't stay… I can't stay here with you… It's too painful."

"I _know_ I can stop you leaving."

"For God's sake, Sherlock! At least make it look like you care! Make it seem like you give a fuck that I'm leaving!" The tears that had been building up in his eyes finally spilled over in a torrent of emotion. This was all his fault. If he'd just learnt to control the damn nightmares, he wouldn't have to leave! But he hadn't… He couldn't. And now he had to leave the only one who could possibly control them, the only person who could save him.

And it was tearing him apart.

Sherlock, on the other hand, stood stoic and calm, confident that John would not leave. He had a plan that was sure to work. Okay, maybe there was still a shred of doubt… But then, John had always been the one person Sherlock couldn't truly and completely figure out; hell, he'd even had his doubts about John having feeling for him, so he still couldn't be completely sure…

John looked down at his feet and tried to push past Sherlock, but it failed. Instead, he found himself in the tight grip of the skinny detective, as he was suddenly spun and slammed against the wall, staring at Sherlock, incredulous. His incredulity didn't have much of a chance though, as his mind flooded with such a mixture of emotions as he had never felt before… as Sherlock's mouth locked with his.

The first feeling, as Sherlock's lips touched his, was shock…

The second, as his tongue scraped along his bottom lip, was pleasure.

And finally, as Sherlock's tongue invaded his mouth, confusion.

He was consumed by all three at once, and he couldn't fight, couldn't reciprocate… He couldn't do anything.

After what felt like forever, Sherlock pulled away, leaving John numb and confused; lost in his emotions.

"So… Do you still wish to leave?" Sherlock said calmly, although a little breathless.

"I… Why… Why did you-?" John couldn't iterate his sentences properly.

"Is that not obvious?"

"You… Don't really make things very clear."

"I… I…" Sherlock couldn't speak now. A blush crept into his cheeks as John waited patiently, watching Sherlock carefully. Finally, the detective took a deep breath, and said very slowly: "I have feelings for you, as well."

John's heart stopped again. Sherlock seemed to read his mind.

"Yes, John. I did just say that."

"B-but…"

"I care for you, John. I don't… I don't want you to leave." He felt suddenly very exposed; he was revealing his greatest weakness, and John could destroy him now… In so many ways. But that didn't matter.

"You…?"

"Yes."

"Am I dreaming?"

"No."

"You sure?" a nervous laugh escaped John's lips. He was still against the wall, too stunned to move.

"Certain. I'm far too close for you to dream." Sherlock said, placing his arms either side of John's head and smirking. John blushed bright red, but smiled.

"You're my dream catcher…" he said, only realising afterwards just how cheesy that sounded, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

"Indeed. So… Do you still object to my method?" Sherlock leant in close to whisper in John's ear.

"No… No objections here." John whispered, his voice shaky.

"Good. Then I will be your dream catcher, until you tire of me."

"You'll be my dream catcher for a long time then." John said with a smile.

Sherlock smiled wryly back. "I wouldn't have it any other way." And he sealed the promise with another brain-stopping kiss.

* * *

><p><strong>Again, I hope it lives up to standard!<strong>


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